r\ 


,T 


THE  POEMS 

A 

OF 
CORINNE  ROOSEVELT  ROBINSON 


THE  POEMS 

/to/ 

OF 

CORINNE  ROOSEVELT  ROBINSON 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1921 

Santa  Ana 

Public  Library 


COPTRIOHT,  1912.  1914,  1915,  1916,  1917,  1918,  1919,  1921,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1917.  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  co. 

COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  me,  wis,  1919,  BY  THE  MCCLURE  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  FLYING  MAGAZINE  ASSN.,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  ESS  ESS  PUB.  CO. 


THE  SCRIINER  PHES* 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

This  volume  includes,  with  several  new  poems, 
the  previous  volumes  by  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robin 
son,  "The  Call  of  Brotherhood,"  "One  Woman  to 
Another,"  and  "Service  and  Sacrifice." 


CONTENTS 

> 

THE  CALL  OF  BROTHERHOOD 

LIFE 

PAGE 

THE  CALL  OF  BROTHERHOOD 3 

VISION 5 

LINCOLN 7 

DEATH  AND  THE  SCULPTOR 8 

AMFORTAS 9 

FATE'S  DUEL     .....;... 11 

REMBRANDT'S  POLISH  RIDER 12 

MATERNITY 13 

To  F.  W 14 

MA  BELLE 15 

FRIENDSHIP 16 

STRETCH  OUT  YOUR  HAND 17 

A  SONG  OF  THE  BY-WAYS 18 

MY  COMRADE 20 

SPRING       . 22 

THE  TRAIL  TO  WHITE  TOP 23 

JUNE     ...*..... 27 

vii 


PAGE 


AFTER  LONG  LIFE .  28 

THE  GREAT  QUESTION 29 

PRAYER 30 

DEATH       31 

HEROISM 

THE  TITANIC: 

THE  LUST  FOR  SPEED 35 

PARTING 38 

TOGETHER 39 

THE  MEN 40 

To  A.  W.  B 41 

THE  ENGINEER! 42 

THE  WIRELESS  TOWER 44 

THE  BAND 47 

LOVE 

AWAKENING 51 

LOVE  HAS  A  MYRIAD  OF  WINNING  WAYS     ...  52 

LOVE  Is  A  BEGGAR 53 

ONE  HOUR 54 

"AMOR  SCONSOLATO" 56 

UNFULFILLED 57 

THE  LESSER  PART 58 

THE  BETTER  PART 59 

DISILLUSION 60 

viii 


PAGE 

IF  SOME  FAIR  ANGEL 61 

LOVE  AND  UNFAITH 62 

LOVE  AND  FAITH 63 

THE  FORGOTTEN  COUNTERSIGN 64 

THE  FAILURE  OF  KING  ARTHUR — EIGHT  SONNETS  65 

FRAGMENT 73 

DEBT 74 

TRUE  LOVE  Is  SUCH  A  SWEET  AND  SACRED  THING  75 

GRIEF 

GRIEF 79 

To  S.  D.  R.      . 80 

To  HER 82 

IMPOTENCE 83 

To  HIM 84 

MARCH  NINETEENTH 86 

FEBRUARY  21sT,  1909 87 

FEBRUARY  21sT,  1912 88 

HEART  OF  MY  HEART 89 

THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  WOODS 92 

PAIN  THE  INTERPRETER 93 

ONE  WOMAN  TO  ANOTHER 

ONE  WOMAN  TO  ANOTHER 97 

COULD  I  FORGET? 103 

IF  I  COULD  PURGE  MY  LOVE 104 

ix 


PAGE 

JUGGERNAUT       105 

IF  You  SHOULD  CEASE  TO  LOVE  ME       .     .     .     .  106 

"AND  MEN  SHALL  KILL  THAT  WHICH  THEY  LOVE"  108 

FORFEIT Ill 

MIRIAM,  " LOVED  OF  GOD" 112 

FROM  A  MOTOR  IN  MAY 113 

SPRING  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 114 

SONNET  TO  A  SATYR 116 

RUNNING  IN  THE  RYE 117 

BOB  WHITE 118 

JUNE  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 120 

INDIAN  SUMMER 121 

A  FRAGMENT '  .     .     .     .  122 

BY  AN  OPEN  WINDOW  IN  CHURCH 123 

MOUNT  BALSAM 124 

THE  METROPOLITAN  TOWER  FROM  ORANGE  MOUN 
TAIN  125 

VERA  CRUZ 126 

To  FORBES  ROBERTSON,  AS  HAMLET 127 

"ABSENT  THEE  FROM  FELICITY  AWHILE"     .     .     .  128 

THE  POET 129 

HOSTAGE 130 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE 133 

LIFE,  A  QUESTION? 136 

SOLUTION 137 

A  KENTUCKY  GRAVE       139 

x 


PAGE 

LOVE  Is  A  TALENT 143 

IF  I  WERE  NOT  so  YOUNG 144 

LOVE'S  ARREARS 145 

WHICH? 146 

IN  PRISON 147 

GOD'S  FAIR  WORLD 152 

SPRING  AND  GRIEF 154 

AUTUMN  AND  GRIEF 155 

GETHSEMANE 156 

MOTHERHOOD     .    .    .    .    .    .    ....    .    .    .     .  157 

AFTER 161 

FEAR 162 

SERVICE  AND  SACRIFICE 

SAGAMORE 165 

To  FRANCE 167 

SERVICE 169 

AT  THE  TOMB  OF  LAFAYETTE 170 

SUSPENSE 172 

To  PEACE,  WITH  VICTORY 173 

THANKSGIVING  DAY,  1917        174 

THANKSGIVING,  1918 175 

To  GENERAL  LEONARD  WOOD 176 

CHRISTMAS,  1918 177 

To  ITALY       . 178 

IN  BED 180 

xi 


PAGE 

SOLDIER  OF  PAIN 182 

"DEWEY" 183 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 185 

To  MY  BROTHER 187 

THE  A.  E.  F 189 

VALIANT  FOR  TRUTH  191 

URIEL 193 

THE  LAST  LEAF  IN  SPRING 196 

FLIGHT 201 

FROM  A  MOTOR  AT  MIDNIGHT 204 

\THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  NOWHERE 206 

"!F  I  COULD  HOLD  MY  GRIEF" 208 

THE  WOMAN  SPEAKS  209 

-"WE  WHO  HAVE  LOVED"  210 

LIFE  HURT  ME 211 

THE  OLD  HOUSE 212 

LE  GRAND  DISPARU 213 

THE  PLUS  SIGN  214 


LINES  TO  A  FRIEND  ON  PARTING  AFTER  Six  WEEKS 

IN  INDIA 219 

THE  FUTURE  OF  CHIVALRY 222 

To  DOROTHY  D 226 

xii 


VERSES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  OFFICIAL  BENEFIT  FOR 
THE  RELIEF  OF  BELGIAN  WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN, 
DECEMBER  8,  1914 

PAGE 

MISS   SYBIL   CARLISLE 230 

MR.    WALTER   HAMPDEN          ........  231 

MISS   EDITH   WYNNE   MATTHISON          ..',..  232 

MISS   VIOLA   ALLEN 232 

MR.    HOLBROOK   BLINN 233 

MRS.    PATRICK   CAMPBELL 233 

MISS   ETHEL  BARRYMORE 234 

MR.    WILLIAM   H.    CRANE 235 

MISS   FRANCES   STARR 235 

MLLE.    DORZIAT 236 

MR.    FRANCIS   WILSON 236 

MISS   JANE   COWL          237 

MISS   ANNIE   RUSSELL 237 

MR.    HENRY  MILLER 238 

MR.   WILLIAM   GILLETTE 238 

MR.    WILLIAM   FAVERSHAM 239 

MME.    NAZIMOVA 239 

MESSRS.    WEBER  AND   FIELDS 240 

MISS   ROSE   COGHLAN 240 

MISS   MARIE   DORO 241 

MR.   HENRY   DIXEY 241 

MISS   MARY   SHAW 242 

MISS   BLANCHE   BATES 243 

MISS   ELLEN   TERRY 

xiii 


To  JOSEPH  H.  CHOATE       244 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  TOAST  TO  OUR  G.  O.  M.,  JOSEPH 

H.  CHOATE 247 

To  SOTHERN  AND  MARLOWE 249 

HENDERSON  HOUSE 253 

To  A  BISHOP 257 

THE  POETRY  SOCIETY  ANTHOLOGY 259 

Verses  written  for  an  annual  dinner  of  the  Poetry 
Society  of  America 

EDWARD  J.  WHEELER 261 

MERLE  ST.  CROIX  WRIGHT 263 

JESSIE  B.  RITTENHOUSE 265 

MILES  MENANDER  DAWSON 267 

PADRAIC  COLUM 269 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 270 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 271 

AN  AMERICAN'S  APOLOGY 273 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  "  ULTIMATE  CONSUMER  "  IN  LITER 
ATURE  276 


xiv 


THE  CALL  OF  BROTHERHOOD 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 


TO 
FRANCES  THEODORA  PARSONS 

THE  FRIEND 

TO   WHOSE   INSPIRATION   AND    COMPANIONSHIP 

I    OWE    MY    HAPPIEST    HOURS 

WITH  BOOKS  AND  NATURE 


LIFE 


THE    CALL    OF    BROTHERHOOD 

TTAVE  you  heard  it,  the  dominant  call 
*  *  Of  the  city's  great  cry,  and  the  thrall 
And  the  throb  and  the  pulse  of  its  life, 
And  the  touch  and  the  stir  of  its  strife, 
As,  amid  the  dread  dust  and  the  din 
It  wages  its  battle  of  sin? 
Have  you  felt  in  the  crowds  of  the  street 
The  echo  of  mutinous  feet 
As  they  march  to  their  final  release, 
As  they  struggle  and  strive  without  peace? 
Marching  why,  marching  where,  and  to  what! 
Oh!  by  all  that  there  is,  or  is  not, 
We  must  march  too  and  shoulder  to  shoulder. 
If  a  frail  sister  slip,  we  must  hold  her, 
If  a  brother  be  lost  in  the  strain 
Of  the  infinite  pitfalls  of  pain, 
We  must  love  him  and  lift  him  again. 
For  we  are  the  Guarded,  the  Shielded, 
And  yet  we  have  wavered  and  yielded 
To  the  sins  that  we  could  not  resist. 
3 


By  the  right  of  the  joys  we  have  missed, 
By  the  right  of  the  deeds  left  undone, 
By  the  right  of  our  victories  won, 
Perchance  we  their  burdens  may  bear 
As  brothers,  with  right  to  our  share. 
The  baby  who  pulls  at  the  breast 
With  its  pitiful  purpose  to  wrest 
The  milk  that  has  dried  in  the  vein, 
That  is  sapped  by  life's  fever  and  drain — 
The  turbulent  prisoners  of  toil, 
Whose  faces  are  black  with  the  soil 
And  scarred  with  the  sins  of  the  soul, 
Who  are  paying  the  terrible  toll 
Of  the  way  they  have  chosen  to  tread, 
As  they  march  on  in  truculent  dread, — 
And  the  Old,  and  the  Weary,  who  fall — 
Oh!  let  us  be  one  with  them  all! 
By  the  infinite  fear  of  our  fears, 
By  the  passionate  pain  of  our  tears, 
Let  us  hold  out  our  impotent  hands, 
Made  strong  by  Jehovah's  commands, 
The  God  of  the  militant  poor, 
Who  are  stronger  than  we  to  endure, 
Let  us  march  in  the  front  of  the  van 
Of  the  Brotherhood  valiant  of  Man! 
4 


VISION 

CRIEND  of  the  People,   purposeful   and 

strong, 

You,  who  would  right  their  wrong, 
You,  of  the  ardent  eyes 
That  woo  the  glory  of  the  further  skies! 
For  the  glad  answer  of  a  new  sunrise 
Must  you  then  wait  so  long? 

Oh!  Man  of  Vision!  though  the  rest  be  blind, 

You,  who  do  love  Mankind, 

You,  who  believe 

That  our  fair  Country  shall  indeed  retrieve 

The  promise  of  the  ages.     You  shall  find 

Your  heart's  reprieve. 

With  your  own  motto 
"Spend  and  so  be  spent,'* 
Your  high  intent 

Makes  of  yourself  a  willing  instrument. 
5 


With  heart  and  soul  afire 

You  do  aspire 

But  to  be  broken,  should  the  cause  require, 

An  arrow  shattered  ere  the  bow  be  bent! 

What  though  the  sordid  sneer! 

They  may  not  hear 

The  cry  of  those 

Who  suffer  the  fierce  throes 

Of  pain  and  hunger  after  deadly  toil. 

Your  brothers  of  the  soil 

Follow  your  beacon  light 

Away  from  their  dark  night. 

And  in  the  end, 

Though  you  be  spent, 

You,  who  were  glad  to  spend, 

Who  would  not  be 

A  baffled  Moses  with  the  eyes  to  see 

The  far  fruition  of  the  Promised  Land, 

Who  would  not  understand 

How  to  lead  captive  dread  Captivity, 

Who  would  not  even  crave 

A  lost  and  lonely  grave 

By  Jordan's  wave? 

1912  6 


LINCOLN 

A  MARTYRED  Saint,  he  lies  upon  his  bier, 
While,   with   one   heart,   the   kneeling    nation 

weeps, 

Until  across  the  world  the  knowledge  sweeps 
That  every  sad  and  sacrificial  tear 
Waters  the  seed  to  patriot  mourners  dear, 
That  flowers  in  love  of  Country.     He  who  reaps 
The  gift  of  martyrdom,  forever  keeps 
His  soul  in  love  of  man,  and  God's  own  fear. 
Great  Prototype  benign  of  Brotherhood — 
Incarnate  of  the  One  who  walked  the  shore 
Of  lonely  lakes  in  distant  Galilee; 
With  patient  purpose  undismayed  he  stood, 
Steadfast  and  unafraid,  and  calmly  bore 
A  Nation's  Cross  to  a  new  Calvary! 


DEATH  AND  THE  SCULPTOR 

SUGGESTED    BY    DANIEL    C.    FRENCH'S    RELIEF 

IV  A  AY  I  not  carve  the  message  of  thine  eyes 

*•  *  *  That  long  'neath  adamantine  brows  is  hid, 
Oh!  mighty  Sphinx  that  near  the  Pyramid, 

Beneath  the  glamour  of  Egyptian  skies, 

The  riddle  of  the  ages  still  defies? 

Youth  is  my  master — Dauntless  Youth  would  bid 
Me  find  the  answer  underneath  thy  lid 

Where  Life's  solved  mystery  unwritten  lies. 

Lof  as  I  carve,  I  feel  Death's  ruthless  hand. 
And  I,  so  young,  must  lay  my  instrument 
Away  with  all  my  eager,  ardent  faith. 

May  it  not  be  that  one  revealing  wand 

Alone  can  point  us  what  the  secret  meant, — 
Interpreter  of  Life — Thy  name  is  Death! 


8 


AMFORTAS 

T  AM  the  Sinner,  purer  than  the  sin, 
*•  I  am  the  Doer,  worthier  than  the  deed, 
I  am  the  Loser,  who  was  meant  to  win, 
I,  the  Forswearer,  yet  who  loved  the  Creed. 

I,  the  Inheritor  of  Holiness, 

The  knighted  Guardian  of  the  mystic  Grail, 

Lo!  I  am  lost  in  deep  and  dire  distress, 

For  I  have  loved  the  best,  and  yet  could  fail. 

I  was  the  bearer  of  the  Holy  Spear 
But,  through  my  sin,  the  sacred  Thing  I  bore 
Turned  on  my  breast,  and  what  I  held  most  dear 
Has  left  an  anguished  wound  for  evermore. 

Mine  was  a  soul  freeborn  to  love  the  light 
Astir  with  winged  hope  and  high  emprise, 
Self  slain,  and  chained  to  dark  and  dreadful  night, 
Though  doomed  to  deathlessness,  it  faints  and  dies. 

9 


To  love  the  right,  and  yield  unto  the  wrong, 
To  have  the  best,  and  know  it,  yet  to  lose; 
To  be  the  weak,  though  born  to  be  the  strong, 
To  crave  the  pure,  and  yet  the  loathly  choose. 

Perchance  the  tortured  terror  which  I  bear 
Forever  burning  in  my  bleeding  breast 
Shall  purge  my  sin  and  win  for  me  a  share 
In  the  Redeemer's  gift  of  perfect  rest. 

I  am  the  Sinner,  purer  than  the  sin, 
I  am  the  Doer,  worthier  than  the  deed, 
I  am  the  Loser,  who  was  meant  to  win, 
I,  the  Forswearer,  yet  who  loved  the  Creed! 


10 


FATE'S  DUEL 

\ 

TT  comes  to  all  of  us,  or  soon  or  late, 

*  And  we  must  buckle  close  our  coat  of  mail; 

Hand  may  not  falter,  nay,  nor  keen  eye  quail 
Before  the  destined  duel  with  our  Fate! 
And  some  who  conquer,  find  they  abdicate 

The  throne  which  was  their  joy;    and  some  who 
fail 

To  win  the  battle,  ardent  still  and  pale, 
Fight  on, — nor  will  the  angry  Gods  placate. — 
But  some,  with  visor  down  to  hide  the  eyes' 

That  looked  upon  a  high  love's  shattered  faith, 
And  some,  whom  Love  relentlessly  passed  by, 
Must  battle  without  hope. — For  them  there  lies 

No  eager  glory  in  Life's  sacrifice, 
No  victory  except  in  loyal  Death! 


11 


REMBRANDT'S    POLISH    RIDER 

WITH  careless  ease,  lithe,  supple,  lissome,  free, 
He  sways  the  rein  with  adolescent  grace, 
And  Youth  is  in  the  ardor  of  his  face; 
His  eyes  are  wells  of  Life's  expectancy, 
The  romance  of  the  wonder  yet  to  be! 
What  will  he  lose  or  win  before  his  race 
Is  gained  or  lost?     Shall  honor  or  disgrace 
Crown  or  defame  his  fine,  fair  chivalry? 
Go,  Rider!     Fare  unto  the  Golden  West — 
And  though  the  Master,  with  unerring  hand, 
Hath   fashioned   that   the   frowning   Dark   Tower 

stand 

So  sadly  close — Fear  not — your  gallant  breast 
Shall  never  shrink  before  the  prison  wall — 
No  fetters  could  your  spirit  high  enthrall! 


MATERNITY 

IV  AY  little  one,  thy  mother's  dreaming  eyes 

*  *  *  Dwell  on  thy  nestling  head  against  her  breast 

With  that  supreme  and  satisfied  surprise, 

Maternity  achieved.     The  strange  behest 

Of  Life  infused  and  made  animate, 

Of  soul  incarnate,  loosened  from  the  spell 

Of  mortal  matter,  and  sent  forth  elate 

To  wing  its  flight  from  that  unfathomed  cell 

Whence  it  was  born,  unto  the  radiant  sun 

That  ever  beckons  to  a  higher  flight; 

The  golden  goal  for  which  the  race  is  run, 

The  heavenly  goal  which  is  eternal  light. 

Oh!  dreaming  mother,  dost  thou  recognize 

The  winged  spirit  in  thy  baby's  eyes! 


13 


TO  F.  W. 

OHE  wore  the  crown  of  wife  and  motherhood 

^  With  noble  dignity.     Her  limpid  gaze 

Could  see  beyond  the  weakness  of  men's  ways, 

And  yet  all  human  things  she  understood. 

Not  of  the  world,  yet  in  it,  for  she  would 

Respond  to  Love's  demands — or  blame — or  praise — 

And  spent  herself  in  each  succeeding  day's 

Fair  opportunity  for  doing  good. 

Her  lips  had  quaffed  the  Sacramental  Wine 

Of  High  Communion  from  her  childhood's  faith; 

Her  eyes  had  early  visioned  the  Divine 

And  found  in  Christ  the  Conqueror  of  death. 

Serene  amid  the  clamor  and  the  strife 

She  bore  the  lily  of  a  blameless  life! 


14 


MA     BELLE 


'""PHE  fine,  fair  cameo  of  her  lovely  face 
•*•   Was  like  a  perfect  flower  in  tint  and  hue, 
And  from  her  being,  breathed  the  nameless  grace 
Of  sheltered  woods  and  violets  shy  and  blue. 
She  did  not  seem  to  know  she  was  so  fair; 
Her  tender  cheek  would  flush  with  sweet  surprise, 
When,  sometimes,  we  who  loved  her,  praised  her 

hair 

Or  prized  the  fawn-like  beauty  of  her  eyes. 
Nor  could  we  think  too  much  of  form  or  line, 
Or  dainty  coloring.     The  radiant  soul 
That  from  those  hazel  eyes  was  wont  to  shine 
Seemed  to  be  one  with  God,  and  claimed  the  whole 
Of  Angel  Sisterhood.     Now,  one  of  them, 
We  reach  toward  Heaven  by  her  garment's  hem! 


15 


FRIENDSHIP 

'"THOUGH  Love  be  deeper,  Friendship  is  more 
wide; 

Like  some  high  plateau  stretching  limitless, 

It  may  not  feel  the  ultimate  caress 
Of  sun-kissed  peaks,  remote  and  glorified, 
But  here  the  light,  with  gentler  winds  allied, 

The  broad  horizon  sweeps,  till  loneliness, 

The  cruel  tyrant  of  the  Soul's  distress, 
In  such  sweet  company  may  not  abide. 
Friendship  has  vision,  though  dear  Love  be  blind, 

And  swift  and  full  communion  in  the  fair 
Free  flights  of  high  and  sudden  ecstasy, 
The  broad  excursions  where,  mind  knit  to  mind, 

And  heart  by  heart  renewed,  can  all  things  dare, 
Lit  by  the  fire  of  perfect  sympathy. 


16 


STRETCH   OUT   YOUR   HAND 

OTRETCH  out  your  hand  and  take  the  world's 
^         wide  gift 

Of  joy  and  beauty.     Open  wide  your  soul 
Down  to  its  utmost  depths,  and  bare  the  whole 
To  Earth's  prophetic  dower  of  clouds  that  lift 
Their  clinging  shadows  from  the  sunlight's  rift, — 
The  sapphire  symphony  of  seas  that  roll 
Full-breasted  auguries  from  deep  to  shoal, 
Borne  from  dim  caverns  on  the  salt  spray's  drift. 
Open  the  windows  of  your  wondering  heart 
To  God's  supreme  creation;    make  it  yours, 
And  give  to  other  hearts  your  ample  store; 
For  when  the  whole  of  you  is  but  a  part 
Of  joyous  beauty  such  as  e'er  endures, 
Only  by  giving  can  you  gain  the  more! 


17 


A  SONG  OF  THE  BY-WAYS 


T  SING  to  the  joy  of  the  By-Ways, 
*•  The  road  that  is  grass  overgrown, 
That  leads  from  the  dust  of  the  high-ways 
To  the  meadow  that  never  is  mown; 
The  subtle  seduction  of  places 
Where  Silence  her  magic  has  wrought, 
And  the  Dream,  or  the  Vision,  effaces 
The  thralldom  of  thought. 

II 

The  hour  we  wantonly  wasted, 
How  rich  in  its  passing,  how  fleet! 
The  fruit  that  we  should  not  have  tasted, 
How  perilous  transient  and  sweet! 
The  dim  and  unfathomed  recesses 
Where  flushes  the  bud  of  desire, 
The  swift,  half  acknowledged  caresses, 
The  moth  and  the  fire! 
18 


Ill 

Then  search  for  the  flower  that  grows  not 

Except  where  the  pathway  is  blind, 

And  the  breath  of  the  blossom  that  blows  not 

Where  its  beauty  is  easy  to  find; 

The  thrill  of  its  scent  aromatic 

No  gardens  of  ease  ever  give, — 

Where  Life  is  fulfilment  ecstatic, 

And  to  love  is  to  live! 


IV 

For  the  Heart  is  the  Lord  of  the  By- Ways 
And  bids  us  forever  to  climb 
To  the  distant  and  delicate  shy-ways 
Where  even  the  Conqueror,  Time, 
Must  pause  on  his  march  for  a  minute, 
To  yield  us  the  consummate  right 
For  the  sake  of  the  bliss  that  is  in  it 
To  our  Dream  of  Delight. 


MY  COMRADE 

I 

V  a  day  when  Youth  was  winging 
Lo!  I  heard  a  comrade  singing — 
And  he  beckoned  me  and  beckoned 
Till  I  joined  him  on  his  way; 
"Come,"  he  said,  "for  Time  is  flying — 
Age  is  hastening,  Youth  is  dying — 
Come  and  we  will  turn  September 
Back  into  the  bloom  of  May!" 

II 

Oh!  I  thanked  my  Comrade  kindly, 
And  I  followed  him  right  blindly, 
He  was  such  a  merry  fellow 
As  he  sang  his  roundelay; 
All  my  happy  heart  I  showed  him 
For  the  fairy  gift  I  owed  him, 
He  who  taught  me  that  September 
Still  could  hold  the  joy  of  May! 
20 


Ill 

So,  my  Comrade,  I  was  ready 
With  a  spirit  staunch  and  steady, 
Quick  to  snatch  the  fickle  moments 
Of  our  fleeting  holiday. 
How  we  laughed,  the  hours  whiling, 
Though  we  knew  that  no  beguiling 
Could  do  aught  but  cheat  September 
With  a  masquerade  of  May! 


IV 

Sometimes  still  I  hear  him  calling, 
But  the  autumn  leaves  are  falling 
And  his  voice  has  lost  its  lilting, 
Luring  music,  blithe  and  gay — 
And  his  song  is  faint  and  hollow, 
For  I  may  not  rise  and  follow, 
I  who  know  that  bleak  November 
Is  a  mockery  of  May! 


SPRING 

HPHE  budding  promise  of  recurrent  Spring 
•*•   Has  filled  my  heart  with  all  its  primal  fire, 
And,  like  a  flight  of  birds  upon  the  wing, 
It  soars  celestial  with  the  wild  desire 
For  all  that  was,  when  Youth  and  Love  were 

young— 
Ere  Pain  articulate  had  found  a  tongue. 

There  is  a  fragrance  in  the  April  air 

That  breathes  of  Resurrection;  and  the  blue 

Compelling  canopy  that  arches  fair 

Above  our  heads,  would  bid  us  to  renew 

Our  childhood's  faith  in  Heaven's  sapphire  gate, 

And  once  again  our  souls  rededicate. 

What  if  the  holy  fires  of  youth  are  shaken, 
And  burned  to  dust  before  Life's  common  waste, — 
One  touch  of  Spring  and  all  our  veins  awaken 
And  crave  once  more  the  lost  delights  to  taste; — 
Undying,  and  reborn,  dim  memories  stir 
The  old,  sweet  pregnancy  of  days  that  were! 

22 


THE  TRAIL  TO  WHITE  TOP 

I 

OH!  the  trail  that  leads  to  White  Top  in  the 
merry  month  of  May, 
What  a  galaxy  of  beauty  we  shall  find  upon  the 

way. 

There  the  haughty  hemlock's  shade  is 
Bending  o'er  the  quaker  ladies 
In   the  gorge  as   deep   as  Hades   where  the  lady 
slippers  stray! 

II 

Would  you  climb  the  dappled  pathway  toward  the 

misty  mountain  height 
You  must  balance  on  your  saddle,  right  to  left, 

and  left  to  right — 

For  the  branches  stoop  and  press  you 
As  a  lover  would  caress  you, 

Begging  only  you   confess  you   greet   their  ardor 
with  delight. 

23 


Ill 

There  the  painted  trillium  glances  from  her  trinity 

of  leaves, 
And  her  sister,  the  Wake-Robin,  nods  serenely 

and  believes 

That  perchance  her  singing  brother 
On  some  rapid  flight  or  other 
Brushed  her  petals  with  a  feather  where  the  bur 
nished  crimson  heaves. 

IV 

Near  the  rocks  the  wild  azalea,  flaring  in  an  orange 

flame, 
Leans    above    the    mandrake    blossom,    hiding 

'neath  her  leaf  in  shame — 
And  Clintonia  Umbellata 
Gleams  beside  the  laughing  water 
Like  a  monarch's  royal  daughter  who  disdains  a 
common  name! 

V 

As  we  climb  we  see  Elk  Garden,  with  its  broad 

and  grassy  sweep, 

And    the    crown    of   black    old    Balsam    casting 
shadows  long  and  deep, 
24 


But  we  mount  forever  higher 
Where  the  wind  plays  like  a  lyre, 
And  the  sunset's  sudden  fire  falls  on  summits  wild 
and  steep. 

VI 

Here  the  delicate  Spring  beauty  clambers  up  the 

mountain  side, 
And  the  wind  flower  swaying  gently,  pristine  as 

a  pallid  bride, 

White  Top's  children  shyly  peeping 
From  the  undergrowth  where  creeping 
Pine  and  fir  their  tryst  are  keeping,  though  we  crush 
them  as  we  ride. 

VII 

Now   we   scale   the   final   hillock,   and   before   our 

wondering  eyes 
Range  on  range  of   mountains   rising  from   the 

valley  to  the  skies, 
Far  unto  the  dim  horizon — 
Peak  on  peak  the  faint  flush  lies  on, 
And   the   young   moon's   shadow   dies   on   myriad 
purple  mysteries. 

25 


VIII 

Oh!  the  trail  that  leads  to  White  Top— When  the 

days  are  cold  and  gray, 
And  the  winter  nights  are  chilly,  how  I  long  to 

wend  my  way 

Back  to  Springtime  and  its  glory, 
There  where  Life's  an  untold  story 
On  the  trail  to  White  Top  hoary  in  the  merry 
month  of  May! 


JUNE 

'"PHE  frail  felicity  of  April  hours 
*    Has  yielded  to  the  prescient  joy  of  May — 
And  she,  in  turn,  has  laid  her  fragrant  flowers 
Upon  the  altar  of  this  perfect  day. 
The  spring  with  lavish  hand  her  incense  spilled, 
An  ardent  acolyte  to  June  fulfilled. 

June  in  the  meadow,  lush  with  living  green, 
June  on  the  hill  side,  soft  with  waving  grain, 
June  in  the  rich  completion  of  the  scene, 
June  in  the  fulness  of  the  thrush's  strain — 
And   yet!   Ah!   June,   must  you,   too,   wend  your 

way — 
Have  you  no  potent  spell  Time's  hand  to  stay? 


AFTER    LONG    LIFE 


A  FTER  long  life  if  I  could  be  bereft 
**•  Of  this  Earth's  passion  and  its  endless  pain, 
And  then,  if  I  could  live  my  life  again 
As  one  by  Death  forgotten  and  youth  left, 
I  wonder  should  I  long,  with  all  the  deft 
Desires  of  my  now  free,  unshackled  brain 
To  enter  Life's  arena?     Should  I  gain — 
No  more  'twixt  hope  and  mortal  anguish  cleft — 
A  disembodied  view  of  soul  and  sense, 
A  swift  solution  of  the  mystery 
Of  Life's  great  pageant,  and  the  poor  pretense 
Of  Heaven's  high-handed  inconsistency? 
So  visioned,  would  I  still  kneel  unto  God, 
Or  yield  obeisance  to  the  soulless  sod? 


THE  GREAT  QUESTION 

IV  AY  heart  is  weary  with  the  world's  distress, 
*•  *  *  The  cry  of  those  who  struggle  in  the  night. 
Oh!  Lord,  who  sent  thy  Son  for  our  redress, 
We  pray  thee  as  of  old  "Let  there  be  light!" 
I  would  not  ask  the  "Why"  nor  pierce  the  veil; 
All  that  I  long  for  is  to  know,  behind 
The  torture,  and  the  terror,  and  the  wail 
Of  human  woe,  there  is  no  cruel,  blind, 
Unreasoning  chance,  that  hurls  us  here  and  there, 
Victims  of  an  insensate  tyranny; 
I  would  not  ask  the  cause,  but  this  my  prayer — 
To  know  there  is  a  cause  for  misery; 
Could  I  but  see  the  working  of  Thy  Hand 
I  should  be  willing  not  to  understand! 


PRAYER 

/"""'RANT  me,  oh!  Lord,  the  attitude  of  prayer! 
^— •*•  My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  sins,  to  lay  them  all 

At  Thy  dear  feet! — I  would  not  prostrate  fall, 
But  I  would  have  my  spirit  always  there. 
From  such  a  vantage  point,  could  I  not  bear 

The  fierce  temptations  which  my  heart  enthrall, 

And  with  Thy  help  so  lift  the  heavy  pall 
Of  anguished  grief.     Perchance  if  I  could  share 
Each  secret  thought  and  raise  it  unto  Thee, 

Just  as  the  dew  is  lifted  from  the  flower 

By  the  great  Sun's  benign  compelling  ray, 
My  faltering  glance  could  so  Thy  beauty  see, 

Until  my  spirit  drawn  by  Thy  pure  power 
Would  turn  to  prayer  as  night  must  turn  to  day. 


80 


DEATH 

T  AM  the  Master  of  the  Secret  Road, 
*  Silent  I  stand  behind  the  half  closed  door. 
And  you,  who  shrink  the  blind,  black  path  before. 
Though  driven  by  the  inexorable  goad, 
You,  who  have  paid  to  Life  the  debt  you  owed, 
Good  coin  or  bad,  from  scant  or  ample  store, 
Poor  Pilgrim,  furtive-footed  on  my  shore, 
May  it  not  be  that  I  shall  lift  your  load? 
Then,  with  undaunted  brow,  come  woo  my  eyes 
And  lay  in  mine  nor  cold,  nor  craven  hand — 
May  you  not  thrill  as  one  with  sweet  surprise 
Who  finds  a  friend  beloved  in  alien  land? 
Perchance  my  face  you  thus  shall  recognize 
And  all  my  secrets  fitly  understand! 


31 


HEROISM 


THE  TITANIC 

THE  LUST  FOR  SPEED 

PROLOGUE 

T  AM  the  Juggernaut 
*   Crushing  beneath  my  wheel 
All  that  is  finest  wrought; 
Iron  and  wood  and  steel 
Shatter  and  writhe  and  reel, 
Yielding  before  my  greed — 
I  am  the  Lust  for  Speed! 

What  do  I  care  for  cries, 
What  unto  me  are  throes, 
What  do  I  reck  who  dies — 
I  am  the  will  of  those, 
Who  from  the  phalanx  rose, 
Captains  of  business  need — 
I  am  the  Lust  for  Speed! 
35 


Lo!  I  must  make  my  way 
O'er  the  vast  Continent, 
I  must  hold  Time  at  bay, 
Rush  till  the  rails  be  rent 
Reek  from  the  girders  bent, 
Mine  is  the  criminal  deed — 
I  am  the  Lust  for  Speed. 

And  when  the  Ocean's  toll 
Reaches  to  hundred  score, 
When  Death's  defiant  roll 
Clamors  for  more  and  more 
Than  ever  claimed  before; 
What  though  my  victims  plead- 
I  am  the  Lust  for  Speed! 

I  must  the  record  break, 

I  must  be  ever  first, 

None  shall  my  laurels  take, 

Mine  is  the  burning  thirst 

Bred  from  the  greed  accursed; 

Nor  shall  a  rival  lead — 

I  am  the  Lust  for  Speed! 


ENVOI 

Captains  of  Industry, 
Pause  but  a  single  hour! 
Those  who  so  silent  lie 
Voice  my  malignant  power; 
This  is  their  final  dower, 
Death  and  Despair  decreed- 
By  the  fell  Lust  for  Speed. 


37 


PARTING 

DELOVED,  you  must  go — ask  not  to  stay, — 
*—*  You  are  a  mother  and  your  duties  call, 

And  we,  who  have  so  long  been  all  in  all, 
Must  put  the  human  side  of  life  away. 
For  one  brief  moment  let  us  stand  and  pray, 

Sealed  in  the  thought  that  whatsoe'er  befall 

We,   who  have  known  the   freedom  and   the 

thrall 

Of  a  great  love,  in  death  shall  feel  its  sway. — 
You,  who  must  live,  because  of  his  dear  need, 

You  are  the  one  to  bear  the  harder  part — 

Nay,  do  not  cling — 'tis  time  to  say  good-by. 
Think  of  me  then  but  as  a  spirit  freed, 

Flesh    of    my    Flesh,   and   Heart   of   my   own 
Heart, 

The  love  we  knew  has  made  me  strong  to  die! 


38 


TOGETHER 

F  CANNOT  leave  you,  ask  me  not  to  go, 

*   Love  of  my  youth  and  all  my  older  years — 

We,  who  have  met  together  smiles  or  tears, 
Feeling  that  each  did  but  make  closer  grow 
The  union  of  our  hearts — Ah!  say  not  so 

That  Death  shall  find  us  separate.     All  my  fears 

Are  but  to  lose  you.     Life  itself  appears 
A  trifling  thing — But  one  great  truth  I  know, 
When  heart  to  heart  has  been  so  closely  knit 

That  Flesh  has  been  one  Flesh  and   Soul  one 

Soul, 

Life  is  not  life  if  they  are  rent  apart, 
And  death  unsevered  is  more  exquisite 

As  we,  who  have  known  much,  shall  read  the  whole 
Of  Life's  great  secret  on  each  other's  heart. 


THE  MEN 

WOMEN  and  children  all 
First  to  the  boat! 
Quick  to  the  crucial  call 
Lower — and  float — 
Only  a  swift  good-by, 
Meeting — ah  when? 
And  we  are  left  to  die — 
We  are  the  men! 


Ours  is  the  better  fate, 

Would  we  then  live? 

They,  without  son  or  mate — 

May  God  forgive 

This  untold  sacrifice. 

Courage!  again, 

Under  the  starlit  skies — 

We  are  the  men! 

Steerage  and  financier 
Answer  the  roll, 
Each  with  his  duty  clear, 
Peace  to  his  soul, 
40 


Though  the  great  ocean  roar 
Victor — what  then! 
Heroes  for  evermore, 
We  are  the  men! 


TO  A.  W.  B. 

TTERE'S  to  you,  gallant  friend, 

•*•  •*•   Gentle  and  brave, 

You,  who  full  fathom  deep 

Lie  'neath  the  wave. 

You  were  a  soldier  still 

Up  to  the  last, 

Doing  your  Captain's  will 

As  in  the  past. 

Not  from  a  bullet's  flight, 
Not  under  arms, 
But  in  the  Ocean's  night 
Of  wild  alarms. 
Calm  in  the  midst  of  fears, 
Taking  command, 
Courage!  in  spite  of  tears 
For  Fatherland. 
41 


We  who  have  known  you  long, 

Gallant  and  gay, 

First  in  the  dance  and  song, 

Pleasure  and  play, 

Knew,  too,  the  valiant  soul 

That  would  stand  by 

(Women  and  children  first!) — 

Ready  to  die! 


THE  ENGINEER! 


WORK,  work,  work, 
Down  in  the  ship's  deep  hold. 
Was  there  a  man  would  shirk? 
They  of  the  tale  untold; 
Down  by  the  hot  flames  fanned, 
Theirs  was  the  cruel  part; 
They  of  the  tireless  hand, 
They  of  the  dauntless  heart! 
42 


II 

'Boys!  we  must  keep  her  straight, 
She  is  a  gallant  boat, 
Worthy  a  better  fate, 
Finest  of  all  afloat — 
Now,  as  the  Wireless  Call 
Sweeps  the  encircling  sea, 
Here  in  this  prisoned  wall 
It's  up  to  you  and  me!" 

Ill 

Work,  work,  work, 
Water  is  creeping  higher, 
Was  there  a  man  would  shirk? 
Engines  must  have  their  fire. 
Up  on  the  ship's  great  deck 
Many  are  careless  still, 
They,  in  the  deep  hold's  wreck, 
Work  with  an  iron  will. 

IV 

Knowing  they  have  no  hope 
When  she  must  list  and  lunge, 
Never  a  piece  of  rope, 
Theirs  is  a  fettered  plunge, — 
43 


Fires  are  out, — and  cold 
Rises  the  fluent  fear,—- 
Here's  to  the  tale  untold, 
Here's  to  the  Engineer! 


THE  WIRELESS  TOWER 

I 

TPHE  "ambulance  call  of  the  sea" 
*     Winging  its  frenzied  flight — 
Hark!  'tis  the  C  Q  D 

Rushed  through  the  breathless  night! 
"Sister  Ships,  do  you  hear? 

Hurry,  turn  on  your  trail. — 
Is  there  none  that  is  near? 

Quick  or  your  quest  will  fail!" 

II 

Like  an  insistent  hand, 

Searching  the  baffling  dark, 
Far  from  the  tranquil  land 

Travels  the  gallant  spark. 
44 


Fingers  frozen  and  numb, 

Phillips,  and  pale  young  Bride — 
"Hurry!  Danger!  and  Come!" 

Working  there  side  by  side — 

III 

"Sister  Ships,  do  you  hear 

Carpathia,  Olympic?"     At  last! 
"Courage!  have  a  good  cheer — 

Lo!  we  are  coming  fast. 
Turned  on  our  tracks  are  we 

Sped  with  our  utmost  speed, 
Over  the  icy  sea, 

Racing  to  meet  your  need!" 

IV 

Whose  is  the  pallid  face? 

"Down  we  sink,  by  the  head, 
Boys!  you  may  leave  your  place, 

Each  for  himself!"  he  said. 
Fingers  frozen  and  numb, 

Phillips,  and  pale  young  Bride — 
Hist!  to  the  dogged  hum, 

Working  there  side  by  side. 
45 


V 

Hark!  to  the  S  O  S 

"Down  we  go,  by  the  head — 
Quick!  we  are  in  distress, 

Hurry  to  aid,"  it  said. — 
"Phillips!  we  must  not  stay, 

Come,  there  is  no  more  time." 
Yet  does  the  Wireless  play, 

Beating  its  rhythmic  rhyme,— 

VI 

"Down  we  go,  by  the  head," 

Splutter — and  dot — and  dash- 
Darkness!     Peace  to  the  Dead! 
Silenced  the  dauntless  flash. 


46 


THE  BAND 


HPHE  boats  are  lowered,  floating  on  the  sea, 
•*•     And  as  the  men,  with  silent  courage,  stand, 
Like  to  a  battle  call  of  minstrelsy, 
A  sudden  volume  sweeps.     Oh!  Gallant  Band, — 
Calmly,  as  if  on  terraced  garden  green, 
The  liquid  music  lifts  to  starlit  skies, 
As  though  the  breathless  horror  of  the  scene 
Were  but  a  prelude  unto  Paradise. 


II 

The  sweet,  old  hymn  that  every  little  child 
Has  learned  to  whisper  at  his  mother's  knee, 
Perchance,  at  that  dread  moment,  reconciled 
Each  doubting  heart  to  meet  Eternity. 
The  flute  and  cornet,  cello,  violin, 
Not  one  was  missing  from  the  accustomed  place, 
And  wafting  sound,  above  the  water's  din, 
Followed  each  warrior  to  his  resting  place. 


47 


Ill 

No  hope  forlorn,  by  martial  music  led, 
Was  ever  cheered  by  anthem  more  inspired; 
Each  hero,  now  amongst  the  deathless  Dead, 
Ready  to  meet  his  fate,  with  ardor  fired, 
Owed  his  last  debt  to  those  who,  unafraid 
Though  face  to  face  with  Death  that  was  to  be, 
With  valiant  hearts  and  hands  so  firmly  played 
Unto  the  end,  their  Requiem  of  the  Sea! 


48 


LOVE 


AWAKENING 

T^HE  tender  glamour  of  the  dreamy  days 
•*•  Before  Love's  full  effulgence  was  complete 
Dwells  in  my  soul.     The  dim  untrodden  ways 
That  wooed  our  eager  yet  reluctant  feet; 
The  mute  communion  of  our  meeting  eyes, 
The  hand's  elusive  touch,  when  still  no  word 
With  its  supreme  significant  surprise 
The  pregnant  passions  of  our  beings  stirred; 
The  shadowy  dawn  of  unawakened  pain, 
Love's  counterpart,  with  its  evasive  thrill, 
Haunted  our  hearts,  and  like  the  minor  strain 
Of  some  great  anthem  ere  the  sound  is  still, 
Mingled  with  all  the  rapture  yet  to  be 
A  note  of  anguish  hi  its  harmony! 


51 


LOVE  HAS  A  MYRIAD  OF 
WINNING  WAYS 

T   OVE  has  a  myriad  of  winning  ways 

•*— '  Beside  the  wells  of  his  deep  tenderness, 

The  frolic  of  his  fugitive  caress 

As  in  my  hair  his  wanton  finger  strays, 

The  lyric  laughter  of  his  witching  gaze 

That  draws  my  own,  reluctant,  to  confess 

The  swift  response  that  borders  on  distress, 

So  clearly  it  my  willing  heart  betrays. 

Love  sometimes  makes  a  petulant  pretense 

Of  injured  dignity  that  he  doth  feign, 

As  though,  in  truth,  his  wayward  heart  did  swell 

With  artless  ardor  in  his  own  defence, — 

A  playful  parody  of  poignant  pain, 

Created  only  to  enhance  his  spell! 


LOVE  IS  A  BEGGAR 

T    OVE  is  a  beggar,  most  importunate, 

*— '  Uncalled     he     comes     and     makes     his    dear 

demands. 

He  storms  my  heart  which  doth  capitulate 
And  then  he  asks  the  homage  of  my  hands. 
He  claims  my  eyes,  and  wistfully  they  turn, 
He  craves  my  lips,  half-willingly  they  yield 
Their  soft  obeisance  to  his  own  that  burn 
With  potent  passion  in  the  power  they  wield. 
And  when,  with  woman's  faith,  I  give  my  whole, 
I  wonder  if  dear  Love  doth  recognize 
That,  with  it  all,  unless  he  claim  my  soul, 
He  gives  me  naught  and  asks  but  sacrifice! 
For  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  should  wish  no  dole, 
Nor  eyes,  nor  lips,  nor  heart,  without  the  Soul! 


53 


ONE  HOUR 


ONATCHED  from  the  greedy  hand  of  ruthless 

^        Time, 

We  saved  one  hour  of  golden  afternoon. 

Oh!  Love,  it  seemed  our  hearts,  as  one,  did  chime 

In  subtle  symphony;  and  so  in  tune 

Our  spirits  were,  that  speech  was  hardly  part 

Of  the  deep  language  of  the  happy  heart. 

II 

The  sunset  lingered  in  the  misty  sky, 

Till  dim  cloud  shadows  in  the  water  grew, 

And  lilting  reed-birds  from  the  rushes,  by 

The  gliding  stream,  across  our  vision  flew, 

With  low,  sweet  cries,  as  though  to  thrill  the  ear 

With  the  close  thought  that  Nature  was  so  near. 


54 


Ill 

We  seemed  in  unison  with  bird  and  flower, 

At  one  with  all  the  soft  and  sensuous  light; 

I  thought  of  Danae  in  her  golden  shower 

And  felt  the  God  had  claimed  me  as  his  right — 

The  terrible,  strong  God  whom  men  call  Love, 

Who  rules  "the  Earth  below,  the  Heavens  above!" 

IV 

And  yet,  in  that  sweet  hour,  the  Soul  was  king! 

And  held  the  heart  in  pure  and  potent  sway, — 

And  we  can  ever  to  that  memory  bring 

The  grateful  knowledge  that  our  perfect  day, 

With  all  its  essence  of  a  mortal  union, 

Was  touched  with  high  and  Heavenly  communion. 


55 


"AMOR  SCONSOLATO" 

WRITTEN    FOB    THE    FIGURE    CARVED    BY    PHILIP    SMITH 

HPHE  broken  lyre  is  lying  at  thy  feet, 
*•  All   hushed   and    mute    the    rich    and    vibrant 

strings — 

Oh!  Love  disconsolate,  with  drooping  wings, 
Must  thou  forego  the  music  once  so  sweet? 
Yet  that  deep  note,  forever  incomplete, 
Its  haunting  melody  through  memory  sings, — 
Lost,  unfulfilled,  triumphant  still  it  rings 
Once  perfect  chord,  soon  silent,  full  but  fleet! 
My  broken  heart  lies  crushed  within  thy  hand, 
Dumb  as  the  severed  lyre's  harmony, 
No  more  a  magnet  to  thy  magic  wand, 
It  lies  inert — Lean,  lowlier,  Love!  and  see 
The  hidden  symbol  by  thy  sad  wings  fanned — 
Death  is  Love's  hostage — Immortality. 


56 


UNFULFILLED 

T  READ  the  pain  and  pathos  of  your  eyes, 
*  The  aftermath  of  anguish  in  your  smile, 
And  yet  I  can  but  envy  you  the  while! 
Your  heart  has  bled,  an  ardent  sacrifice 
To  Love's  fulfilment.     You  have  paid  the  price 
Of  keen,  fierce  living;  nor  can  aught  defile 
The  joys  that  once  have  been — they  still  beguile 
The  tear-swept  memory  that  Time  defies. 
My  soul's  adventure,  pallid,  incomplete, 
Has  lingered  in  the  twilight,  for  my  heart 
Has  dwelt  aloof  in  some  dim  atmosphere 
Betwixt  the  Earth  and  Heaven.     My  alien  feet 
Have  known  nor  Pain  nor  its  great  counterpart. 
I,  who  have  never  loved,  may  shed  no  tear! 


57 


THE  LESSER  PART 

TTAD  I  been  true  to  my  deep  loneliness, 

*•  *•  Nor  sought  a  lesser  love  to  soothe  my  grief, 

Had  I  been  willing  not  to  find  relief, 

But  so  to  live,  companioned  by  distress, 

I,  sometimes,  to  my  inner  soul  confess 

The  fierce  and  inarticulate  belief 

That  such  despair  forever  held  in  fief 

Could  heal  my  spirit  better  than  caress. 

I  have  done  nothing  wrong — I  only  take 

A  human  love  that  longed  to  lift  my  woe, 

I  only  give  a  tender  sympathy, 

And  yet — ah!  yet,  I  sometimes  long  to  wake 

Alone,  to  taste  again  the  bitter  throe 

Of  loveless  and  unsolaced  misery. 


58 


THE  BETTER  PART 

T  LOVED  you  and  I  lost  you  long  ago, 

*     And  though  the  life  within  me  wells  in  Spring 

With  sudden  joy  in  every  living  thing, 
'Tis  but  a  fitful  fever,  for  I  know 
I  may  not  feel  the  glamour  and  the  glow 

That  one  dear  presence  never  failed  to  bring; 

And  though  my  ravaged   heart  may  sometimes 

sing, 

Its  music  cannot  lose  the  note  of  woe. 
So  though  Love  plead  to  give  surcease  from  pain, 

I  would  not  have  it  otherwise.     My  heart 

Would  lose  its  life  with  its  dear  loneliness. 
I  am  of  those  who  may  not  love  again, 

Who  find  the  bleeding  wound  the  better  part, 
And  Grief  assuaged,  but  Grief  without  redress. 


59 


DISILLUSION 

TF  I  could  sleep  and  dream  that  love  were  true, 

*  Had  e'er  been  true,  unsullied  and  supreme, 

I'd  gladly  forfeit  all  the  bliss  I  knew 

And  all  I  ever  could  know.     Blessed  dream, 

Lay  on  my  weary  eyes  eternal  sleep, 

For  now  they  never  open  but  to  weep — 

If  I  could  count  from  off  their  bitter  span 
The  days  of  disillusion  I  have  known, 
The  cruel  knowledge  that  the  heart  of  man 
Has  never  climbed  the  heights,  has  never  grown 
Through  passion  purified  to  peaks  sublime, 
Would  I  not  barter  all  that's  left  of  Time? 


60 


IF  SOME  FAIR  ANGEL 

IF  some  fair  angel  from  the  Upper  World, 
*  With  silent  steps  and  pinions  softly  furled, 
Could  lay  cool  hands  upon  these  tired  eyes, 
Once  more  the  scalding  tears  might  be  empearled. 

Perchance,  if  it  could  feel  such  sweet  caress 
The  Heart  could  conquer  its  own  bitterness, 

And  once  again,  through  pity  and  through  love, 
The  Soul  be  loosened  from  this  dark  distress! 


61 


LOVE    AND    UNFAITH 

"1  \  7E,  who  have  loved,  and  from  our  Faith  have 
*  *  faltered, 

And  made  of  love  a  desecrated  thing, 
How  can  we  bear  to  face  the  God  we've  altered? 

Like  some  great  eagle  on  a  broken  wing, 
No  more  our  love  can  rise  to  heights  transcendent 

Where  glows  the  light  that  ne'er  on  sea  or  shore 
Has  shone  except  for  those  whose  love  resplendent 

Has  lent  them  wings  of  fire  on  which  to  soar. 
From  that  dim  region  which  our  souls  inherit 

We  bore  the  promise  of  a  pristine  flame; 
Alas!  that  we,  who  knew  the  holy  Spirit, 

Should  clasp  a  lifeless  ghost  without  a  name. 
How  empty  now  the  way  through  Heaven's  portal, 
Since  Faith  has  failed  and  Love  is  not  immortal! 


LOVE   AND   FAITH 

I  laughed,  and  you  echoed  my  laughter. 
I  wept,  and  you  mirrored  my  tears, 
But  when  life  is  over,  and  after 
The  tender  enchantment  of  years, 
Is  there  aught  in  high  Heaven  to  discover 
That  our  intimate  joy  may  transcend. 
For  I  found  in  the  heart  of  a  lover 
The  faith  of  a  friend! 

It  may  be  the  part  that  was  spirit, 
God  lent  as  a  shield  for  our  fight, 
And  we  who  were  worthy  to  bear  it 
Shall  lift  it  aloft  in  our  flight 
To  the  ultimate  regions  of  ether, 
Where  Faith  holds  the  key  to  the  throne, 
And  Love,  kneeling  proudly  beneath  her, 
Our  victory  has  won. 


63 


THE    FORGOTTEN     COUNTER 
SIGN 

T    IFE  met  me  on  the  threshold — young,  divine, 

•— '  And  promised  me  unutterable  things; 

And  Love,  with  fragrant  greeting  on  his  wings, 

Looked  in  my  eyes  and  laid  his  lips  on  mine, 

And  bade  me  quaff  the  magic  of  his  wine 

That  deep  delight,  or  disillusion  brings. 

Ah!  had  I  kept  my  fair  imaginings, 

I  had  not  lost  the  heavenly  countersign; 

The  Shibboleth  of  soul  supremacy; 

The  dower  from  my  birth  in  higher  spheres. 

Then  might  I  know  the  purer  ecstasy 

Of  conquering  Earth's  test  of  alien  tears, — 

And  Life,  perchance,  her  promise  might  redeem, 

And  Love  be  more  than  a  delusive  dream! 


64 


THE  FAILURE  OF  KING  ARTHUR 

EIGHT  SONNETS 
SHE  SPEAKS 


TF  some  fierce  wind  of  hot  and  alien  breath 

*   Had  swept  the  petals  from  my  pure  white  rose. 

I  had  been  more  content  to  watch  the  throes 

Of  such  complete  and  devastating  death, 

Than  to  have  seen  it  marred.     For  mortal  faith 

Accepts  the  wild  tornado  when  it  blows, 

And,  sooner  than  a  bleeding  wound  disclose, 

Lays  on  its  buried  hopes  the  final  wreath. 

But  when  the  fitful  gust  of  man's  desire 

Leaves  on  the  spotless  bloom  of  love  a  scar, 

Barters  its  beauty  for  a  transient  hour 

Of  lesser  love,  that  cannot  claim  the  power 

To  wake  within  the  breast  a  lasting  fire — 

Then  must  high  Heaven  mourn  a  fallen  star! 


II 

Perchance  I  could  have  better  borne  the  pain 

Of  knowing  Love  so  infinitely  frail, 

Had  it  not  been  your  hand  that  did  disdain 

To  guard  me  from  the  falling  of  the  flail. 

I  was  secure  in  my  sublime  belief 

That  human  passion  bordered  on  divine. 

How  could  I  dream  that  you  would  be  the  thief 

To  rob  my  cup  of  its  immortal  wine? 

Drained  to  the  dregs,  the  empty  glass  I  fling 

Down  the  dim  path  of  disillusioned  years; 

The  Rose  of  Time  is  withered  in  its  Spring, 

The  Wine  of  Life  transfused  in  bitter  tears, 

And  on  my  lips  is  left  the  tainted  taste 

Of  Love  once  holy  turned  to  weary  waste! 


66 


HE  ANSWERS 

III 

VfOU,  who  have  suffered  much  because  I  failed, 

*     This  bitter  anguish  you  can  never  know — 
To  see  in  eyes  you  love  the  utter  woe 
Of  one  whose  heart  unto  a  cross  is  nailed. 
Must  those  dear  eyes  forever  be  half  veiled 
As  though  afraid  to  meet  the  cruel  blow 
Of  disillusion?     Ah!  how  faint  their  glow — 
Poor,  martyred  spirits  by  their  love  impaled. 
Beloved,  I  would  give  my  days  to  this, 
Could  I  but  render  back  the  joy  you  miss. 
And  lift  the  load  I  laid,  the  deep  distress. 
I,  by  whose  hand  your  soul  was  rudely  torn-~ 
Is  not  my  fate  more  frustrate  and  forlorn, 
To  rob  the  one  I  love  of  happiness? 


67 


IV 

% 

OELOVED,  do  you  know  that  when  you  weep, 

••— '  My  heart  weeps  too  in  unison  with  tears 

That  water  the  lost  joy  of  all  our  years? 

Be  it  your  will  that  I  forever  steep 

My  soul  in  this  despair,  I  gladly  reap 

The  pain  I  sowed  and  pay  my  Faith's  arrears, 

If  I  could  but  dispel  your  soul's  sick  fears 

And  for  your  spirit  its  sad  vigil  keep. 

Teach  me,  my  own,  some  ardent  sacrifice 

To  win  the  gladness  back  to  your  dear  eyes. 

Some  antidote  to  this  eternal  pain. 

What  would  I  give  if  I  could  bear  a  part 

Of  what  I  have  inflicted  on  your  heart, 

And  by  my  torture  let  you  live  again! 


68 


V 

IN  vain! — The  punishment  that  I  must  bear, 
The  bitter  price  that  I  must  always  pay 
Is  that  I  cannot  wash  the  stain  away 
Which  I  have  made  upon  a  love  so  fair. 
I  sometimes  think,  that,  dark  though  the  despair, 
Which  binds  your  being  in  relentless  sway, 
It  does  not  your  sad  heart  more  fiercely  slay 
Than  the  remorse  in  mine  beyond  compare — 
To  give,  and  have  the  fulness  of  return, 
To  love  as  few  have  loved,  and  then  to  mar 
That  spotless  love  by  a  belittling  scar 
Which  must  a  soul  beloved  forever  burn. 
What  anguish  can  be  greater  than  to  know 
One  you  would  shield  is  bleeding  from  your  blow; 


69 


SHE   SPEAKS 

VI 

T    OVE  comes  to  me,  and  knocks  at  my  sad  heart, 
*-•'  And  bids  me  let  him  in  that  he  may  heal 
The  cruel  wound  that  will  not  cease  to  smart 
Which  Love  himself  has  made.     I  would  not  steel 
Myself  against  his  dear  and  pleading  voice, 
Ah!  no,  with  ardor  would  I  fain  forgive; 
But,  though  I  long  with  passion  to  rejoice, 
And  once  again  the  old  sweet  rapture  live, — 
In  vain!  for  naught  can  break  the  iron  bars 
That  hold  my  prisoned  and  enfettered  soul. 
And  I,  who  once  was  kin  unto  the  stars, 
Who  soared  triumphant  to  Life's  utmost  goal, 
Must  dwell  in  wingless  depths  because  I  know 
Had  Love  been  true  I  could  not  suffer  so! 


70 


HE  ANSWERS  AGAIN 

VII 

T  KNOW  you  love  me  still,  for  all  the  blue 

*  And  ardent  glances  of  your  tender  eyes 

Can  never  feign,  or  you  would  not  be  you; 

And  yet  in  your  high  heart  you  do  despise 

The  thing  I  did,  and  swift  resentments  rise 

That  I,  unto  myself  was  so  untrue, 

That  I  could  stain  the  perfect  love  I  knew, 

That  I  could  so  defile  my  life's  set  prize! 

You  love  me,  yes,  and  yet  you  hate  the  sin 

Against  our  love's  convincing  purity; 

I  mourn  with  you  for  what  I  might  have  been, 

High  priest  of  loyal  Love's  security — 

There  is  no  thought  that  crucifies  your  heart 

But  in  my  vain  regret  doth  bear  its  part. 


71 


SHE  SPEAKS  ONCE  MORE 

VIII 

OELOVED,  you  have  taught  me  to  forgive, — 
•*—'     Your  strong  and  fervent  effort  to  redeem 
Has  quickened  my  dead  heart  and  made  it  live, 

And  though  I  mourn  the  glory  of  my  dream 
I  see  that  my  own  love  was  faint  and  frail 

To  meet  the  disillusion  of  your  need. 
I  could  not  bear  to  know  that  you  could  fail, 

Nor   have   you   lean   where   you   were   wont   to 

lead — 
But  now  you  lead  again.     Your  deep  remorse 

Has  won  my  fainting  soul  to  higher  flight, 
And  all  the  bitter  anguish  and  the  loss 

Have  been  the  magnets  to  a  purer  light. 
We,  who  have  fallen  but  to  rise  again, 
Perchance  have  won  the  victory  of  pain! 


FRAGMENT 

r"PHE  dreamy  drift  of  honeysuckle  scent, 
*    A  sensuous  breath  of  beauty  on  the  night — 
And  we  who  shared  the  intimate  delight 
Of  Life  and  Love  with  youth  and  rapture  blent! 
For  such  complete  communion  we  were  meant — 
To  be  but  one  in  thought,  and  that  thought  right, 
To  love  the  lovely  and  to  find  the  Light! 


73 


DEBT 

"\  \  /"HAT  do  you  owe  me,  Love  of  all  my  years? 
*  *    Not  love,  ah!  no,  for  love  can  not  be  owed. 
Love  must  be  free,  accepted  or  bestowed, 
E'en  though  we  pay  its  price  with  bitter  tears! 

But  this  one  debt  you  owe,  that  fearlessly 
Your  eyes  shall  meet  the  candor  of  my  eyes; 
No  veiled  untruth  may  desecrate  the  prize 

Of  a  great  love's  untarnished  memory! 


TRUE  LOVE  IS  SUCH  A  SWEET 
AND  SACRED  THING 

TRUE  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing! 
When  I  am  with  the  One  who  understands, 
I  need  not  touch  her  lips  nor  clasp  her  hands, 
Just  to  be  near  her  makes  my  glad  heart  sing — 
True  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing! 

True  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing 
That  sometimes,  when  I  cannot  have  a  word, 
I  feel  as  though  her  tenderness  I  heard, 
A  full  communion  that  the  thought  may  bring-- 
True  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing! 

True  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing 

That  often  when  my  ardent  spirit  stirs 

In  rich  and  rhythmic  unison  with  hers, 

I  almost  hear  its  mystic  murmuring — 

True  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing! 

75 


True  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing 
That  all  of  beauty  is  intensified, 
The  world  is  so  much  fairer  at  her  side, 
So  much  more  exquisite  the  bloom  of  Spring — 
True  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing! 

True  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing 
That  even  Death  might  lose  for  me  its  dread, 
If  that  dim  hour  could  be  interpreted 
Through  her  pure  soul  that  lifts  me  on  its  wing — 
True  love  is  such  a  sweet  and  sacred  thing! 


GRIEF 

TO  S.  D.  R. 


GRIEF 


HPHE  hollow  waking  ere  the  cruel  dawn 
*•    Has  brought  the  fulness  of  my  conscious  pain, 
The  effort  of  the  numb  and  weary  brain 
To  know  by  what  pale  torture  it  is  torn, 
To  comprehend  the  burden  it  has  borne 
Through  fitful  sleep,  where  ardent  dreams  would 

fain 

Dispel  the  horror  on  the  spirit  lain, 
And  by  fair  visions  cheat  a  fate  forlorn. 
Before  I  fully  face  the  day's  blank  grief — 
This  misery  of  waking  grips  my  soul, 
Till  fiercer  anguish  were  perchance  relief 
And,  better  than  so  nebulous  a  goal, 
The  surer  knowledge  that  no  glad  sunrise 
Unrolls  a  radiant  world  to  radiant  eyes. 


79 


n 

TO   S.    D.    R. 

DELOVED,  from  the  hour  that  you  were  born 
*— "  I  loved  you  with  the  love  whose  birth  is  pain; 
And  now,  that  I  have  lost  you,  I  must  mourn 
With  mortal  anguish,  born  of  love  again; 
And  so  I  know  that  Love  and  Pain  are  one, 
Yet  not  one  single  joy  would  I  forego. — 
The  very  radiance  of  the  tropic  sun 
Makes  the  dark  night  but  darker  here  below. 
Mine  is  no  coward  soul  to  count  the  cost; 
The  coin  of  love  with  lavish  hand  I  spend, 
And  though  the  sunlight  of  my  life  is  lost 
And  I  must  walk  in  shadow  to  the  end, — 
I  gladly  press  the  cross  against  my  heart — 
And  welcome  Pain,  that  is  Love's  counterpart! 


80 


Ill 

F)ERCHANCE  some  day  when  we  shall  see  the 

Whole 

We  may  rejoice  that  he  should  thus  depart, 
With  joy  incarnate  in  his  radiant  soul 
And  one  pure  love,  untarnished,  in  his  heart; 
For  we,  who  near  our  life's  relentless  goal, 
With  tattered  banners  in  our  listless  hands, 
No  more,  head  high,  can  answer  to  the  Roll: 
Our  feet  have  slipped  amid  the  shifting  sands 
Of  standards  lowered  and  illusions  lost. 
His  is  eternal  dawn,  no  setting  sun, 
And  we,  so  passion-driven — tempest-tossed — 
May  scarce  regret  his  short,  glad  battle  won. 
And  yet  this  anguished  thought  cannot  be  stilled — 
So  young,  so  loving,  and  so  unfulfilled! 


81 


IV 


TO   HER 

JV/I  Y  child  in  love,  the  beauty  of  your  eyes 
*•  *  *•  Holds  in  their  ardent  depths  a  poignant  pain, 
How  many  sad  and  sacramental  sighs 
Breathe  through  their  glance  and  wring  my  heart 

again. 

What  would  I  give  could  I  your  burden  bear 
Mingled  with  mine;  I  would  not  sink  below 
All  of  your  grief  and  all  of  your  despair, 
Could  I  but  once  again  transform  your  woe 
Into  the  joy  whose  promise  fair  you  knew, 
Birthright  of  love  which  his  great  love  fulfilled; 
Passion  more  pure,  and  faith  more  firm  and  true 
Earth    hath    not    known    and    Heaven    hath    not 

willed. — 

And  yet,  perchance,  could  I  your  anguish  lift 
I  should  be  robbing  you  of  Life's  best  gift! 


V 
IMPOTENCE 

TO   HER 

JOVE  is  so  strong  and  yet  so  sadly  weak! 

^— '  When  I  behold  the  glory  of  your  eyes 

Sad  with  the  sorrow  which  they  may  not  speak— 

Dim  with  the  forfeit  of  their  glad  sunrise, 

I  long  to  hold  and  fashion  all  the  years 

Back  to  your  birthright  and  away  from  tears. 

II 

I  have  had  joy — Ah!  would  that  it  were  yours — 
I  have  known  life  and  its  broad  vision — pain — 
I  have  had  love,  the  love  that  love  allures; 
If  I  could  only  give  you  all  my  gain, 
There  is  no  prize  that  I  would  set  apart 
Could  it  but  help  the  healing  of  your  heart. 


83 


VI 

TO   HIM 

F3LUE  were  thine  eyes,  reflections  of  the  flower 
*-*  That  bids  us  not  forget,  nor  dream  that  we 
Can  be  forgotten  by  Love's  mighty  power. 
Their  lucid  depths  were  wells  of  constancy. 
Perchance   this    world   had   changed    those   ardent 

eyes 

That  met  its  call  with  loyal,  level  blue — 
For  it  may  be,  alas!  that  Life  belies 
The  promise  that  it  gives  when  Love  is  true. 
And  so,  although  I  weep  these  blinding  tears 
That  fill  my  cup  unto  the  bitter  brim, 
I  can  rejoice  that  the  corroding  years 
Thy  clear  and  crystal  glance  shall  never  dim. 
Are  we  so  frail  that  none  can  stand  the  test, 
Can  Death  alone  be  true  to  Love's  behest? 


84 


VII 

T  TIS  gift  was  Joy,  and  surely  we  must  keep 
•*•  *   The  gift  he  brought,  as  tribute  to  our  love; 
And   we   must   smile,    with   eyes   that   fain   would 

weep 

Hot  tears  of  desolation,  till  we  prove 
That,   through  his  sunshine,   we  have  caught  the 

gleam 

Of  radiance  from  a  higher  sphere  than  ours; 
Just  as,  of  old,  his  presence  used  to  seem 
To  bring  a  sweeter  fragrance  to  the  flowers, 
A  keener  beauty  to  the  morning  sky, 
A  lilt  of  laughter  to  the  buoyant  breeze! 
So  we  must  gather  close  his  legacy 
Of  Love  and  Joy,  and  then,  perchance,  the  Peace 
Which  passeth  understanding  shall  abide 
In  our  sad  hearts  until  the  eventide. 


85 


VIII 
MARCH  NINETEENTH 

'"PHIS  is  the  day  I  held  you  to  my  breast 
*    For  the  first  time,  and  looked  into  the  eyes 
So  soon  to  welcome  with  a  gay  surprise 
The  joy  of  life  and  all  its  ardent  zest. 
For,  ere  its  severed  span  was  rent,  the  best, 
The  most  desired  and  achieved  prize, 
The  heart's  high  love  that  only  true  love  buys, 
Had  crowned  your  youth  with  its  divine  behest. 
I  try  to  sate  my  longing  with  the  thought 
That  you  have  known  the  beauty  and  the  joy 
Of  Life  and  Love,  without  their  bitter  pain; 
But  as  the  miracle  of  Spring  is  wrought, 
And  its  new  birth  doth  Winter's  death  destroy, 
My  heart  cries  out  for  you  to  come  again! 


86 


IX 
FEBRUARY  21ST,  1909 

HPHIS  was  the  day  I  died,  when  all  Life's  sun 
*     Was  blotted  out  in  dark  and  dreadful  night. 
And  I,  who  lived  and  laughed  and  loved  the  light, 
In  one  brief  moment  knew  my  race  was  run; 
Knew  that  the  glory  of  my  days  was  done, 
Because  no  more  with  happy,  human  sight 
In  your  dear  eyes  could  I  read  love  aright, 
No  more  could  feel  how  closely  we  were  one, 
As  we  had  been  for  all  the  perfect  years 
From  boyhood  till  you  came  to  man's  estate; 
My  bliss  is  bartered  now  for  blinding  tears. 
So  young  to  die! — And  Joy  with  step  elate 
Had  chosen  you  her  own.     Love  unafraid 
Had  brushed  your  lips  with  royal  accolade! 


87 


FEBRUARY  2  1ST,   1912 

it  be  true  the  triple  years  have  passed 
With  dull  and  laggard  steps  above  your  head, 
And  yet,  my  Own,  I  cannot  make  you  dead! 
Light  of  my  life,  the  glamour  that  you  cast 
Is  with  me  still — I  hold  it  close  and  fast, 
And,  if  from  Earth  it  has  not  wholly  fled, 
May  not  the  sunshine  which  your  presence  shed 
Break  through  this  leaden  loneliness  at  last? 
Not  that  I  would  my  bitter  pain  deny, 

For  Love  is  Pain  and  I  would  pay  its  price, 

The  poignant  price  of  what  was  once  so  sweet! 
The  Cross  that  Christ  Himself  did  sanctify 
Symbolled  the  ardor  of  Love's  sacrifice, 
And  still  can  lift  us,  kneeling  at  His  feet! 


88 


XI 
HEART    OF    MY    HEART 

Heart  of  my  heart, 
If  you  could  come  again, 
And  I  could  look  once  more  into  the  blue 
Clear  depths  of  your  dear  eyes  whose  soul  I  knew, 
Should  I  be  free  of  this  eternal  pain, 
Heart  of  my  heart? 

Heart  of  my  heart, 
If  I  could  kiss  your  brow, 
The     broad     young     brow     that    promised    virile 

thought, 

With  lines  of  vital  joy  and  ardor  wrought, 
Would  such  a  kiss  suffice  me  even  now, 
Heart  of  my  heart? 

Heart  of  my  heart, 
If  I  could  hear  your  voice 
And  thrill  to  its  clear  tone  with  dazed  delight, 
Would  all  the  world  seem  luminous  and  bright 
And  every  living  thing  with  me  rejoice, 
Heart  of  my  heart? 
89 


Heart  of  my  heart, 
If  I  could  touch  your  hand 
And  feel  its  vibrant  strength  enclose  my  own, 
I  sometimes  think  the  very  touch  alone 

Would  answer  all  my  soul  could  e'er  demand, 
Heart  of  my  heart? 

Heart  of  my  heart, 
If  this  could  ever  be, 
And  all  my  loneliness  were  so  forgot 
In  your  dear  presence,  yet  I  could  not  blot 
From  out  my  heart  this  mortal  misery, 
Heart  of  my  heart! 

Heart  of  my  heart, 
To  taste  the  depths  I've  known 
Is  to  be  part  of  this  World's  utter  woe. 
How  could  I  then  forget  the  pain  I  know? 

Pain  and  my  heart  so  firmly  knit  have  grown, 
Heart  of  my  heart! 

Heart  of  my  heart, 
Not  even  your  loved  smile 
Could  ever  wake  my  own  to  answering  glee, 

90 


For,  from  the  knowledge  of  Earth's  agony, 

No  sweet  reunion  could  my  thoughts  beguile, 
Heart  of  my  heart! 

Heart  of  my  heart, 
My  lips  have  drunk  too  deep 
Of  Marah's  waters  ever  to  forget. 
All  I  can  do,  with  eyes  from  anguish  wet, 

Is  but  to  love  and  weep  with  those  that  weep. 
Heart  of  my  heart  I 


91 


XII 
THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  WOODS 

'""THERE  is  a  garden  in  a  distant  place, 
•*•    In  a  far  field  where  trees  encircling  grow, 
And,  often  when  the  summer  breezes  blow, 
I  go  alone  to  muse  upon  a  face 
That  was  my  joy.     White  roses  interlace 
His  resting  spot  the  granite  cross  below. 
There  my  dumb  heart  can  sometimes  voice  its  woe 
And  ask  the  healing  of  our  dear  Lord's  grace. 
The  fragrance  of  the  rose  is  as  his  youth, 
The  blue  forget-me-nots  reflect  his  eyes, 
The  deep  dyed  pansies  are  for  memory. 
In  that  sweet  garden  I  can  feel  the  truth 
That  all  my  love  doth  follow  to  the  skies 
And  pledge  the  Spirit's  immortality. 


XIII 
PAIN  THE  INTERPRETER 

P)AIN  the  Interpreter  with  level  eyes 

*      Has  bound   a   crown   of  thorns   upon   my 

brow — 

And  bids  me  wear  it  valiantly,  nor  bow 
A  vanquished  head  before  joy's  sacrifice. 

Pain  the  Interpreter  with  searching  hand 
Has  probed  my  heart  to  all  its  pregnant  woe, 
That  I  may  feel  the  world's  titanic  throe, 
And  all  the  Earth  pain  fitly  understand. 

Pain  the  Interpreter  has  seared  my  soul 
Until  its  flame-swept  yision  may  discern 
The  utter  loneliness  of  souls  that  yearn 
Through  some  deep  anguish  toward  a  distant  goal 


ONE   WOMAN   TO   ANOTHER 


TO 
CORINNE   ROBINSON  ALSOP 

MY    DAUGHTER,    MY    FRIEND 
MY   VALUED    CRITIC 


ONE    WOMAN    TO    ANOTHER 

VfOU  are  the  friend  of  all  his  early  years; 
*    He   told   me  that  the  bond   was   strong  and 

close, 

His  comrade,  his  companion,  even  more, 
For  in  your  veins  there  flowed  the  same  hot  blood 
That  coursed  in  his, — your  mothers,  sisters, — born 
In  selfsame  hour,  linked  by  that  close  tie. 
Thus  were  their  children  knit  by  call  of  flesh — 
Often  he  told  me  that  you  never  failed, 
And  that  when  others,  with  averted  gaze, 
Would  have  him  know  his  own  unworthiness, 
Your  eyes  held  only  memories  of  the  past 
With  hope  for  fairer  future  in  their  depths — 
Loyal  and  loving  in  their  tender  blue, 
Fit  mirror  for  the  loyal,  loving  heart. 
Come  with  me,  then,  and  stand  beside  him  here; 
How  still  he  lies,  who  was  in  love  with  life ! 
Ah !  yes,  his  face  is  sweet  to  look  upon, 

97 


The  restlessness  is  gone  and  all  the  lines 

Are  softened  back  once  more  to  vanished  youth, 

And  that  strange  look,  so  foreign  to  his  heart, 

Which  came  because  his  cruel  enemy  held 

So  fierce  and  firm  a  sway — it,  too,  is  gone — 

And  so  your  tender  kiss  upon  his  brow 

Falls  on  the  face  your  childhood  knew  so  well. 

The  last  words  that  he  spoke  were  all  for  you. 

In  fierce  delirium  his  accents  fell, 

Murmuring  with  contentment  "She  will  come" 

And  now  that  you  are  here  my  bursting  heart 

Must  pour  out  all  its  anguish,  all  its  joy— 

For  joy  there  was,  though  now  this  bitter  pain. 

I  was  of  that  strange  world  you  cannot  know, 

The  "half- world"  with  its  glamour  and  its  glare, 

Its  sin  and  shame;  where  men,  like  ravening  wolves, 

Feed  on  the  bodies  and  the  souls  of  us 

Who,  either  steeped  in  callous  wickedness, 

Or  reckless  with  a  dull  and  hopeless  dread 

Of  cold  and  hunger  and  all  bitter  things, 

Are  willing,  nay,  are  sometimes  even  glad, 

To  yield  our  outer  selves  for  inner  warmth. 

And  yet  I  shrank,  for  I  was  young, — so  young — 

And  very  simple,  made  for  better  things. 

One  night  he  came  and  looking  in  my  face 

98 


He  said:  "You  have  a  true  and  tender  heart, 
If  you  will  come  with  me  I'll  shelter  it, 
For  I  am  weary  and  athirst  for  love." 
Thus,  then,  I  went.     At  first  I  only  knew 
That  I  could  eat  until  I  had  enough, 
That  I  could  sleep  without  the  haunting  thought 
Of  what  the  dreaded  day  was  sure  to  bring; 
But  soon  a  great  and  mighty  passion  grew 
O'erwhelming  both  my  body  and  my  soul 
Because  he  was  so  very  good  to  me — 
Never  a  harsh  or  cruel  word  or  deed, 
And  even  when  the  fire  filled  his  brain, 
For  me  he  only  had  the  anguished  look 
That  seemed  to  pray  me  to  forgive  him  all. 
You,  who  have  never  known  the  fierce,  hot  fumes 
That  rise  and  choke  the  very  soul  of  man 
And  blur  the  tottering  reason  till  it  fall, 
How  can  you  judge  of  him,  and  how  could  she 
Whose  fair  white  bosom  was  a  thought  too  chaste 
To  pillow  a  repentant  weary  head? 
But  I  who  knew  the  evil  of  the  world 
Could  never  shrink  before  so  sad  a  thing; 
My  breast  was  ready  for  that  burning  brow, 
My  hands  to  clasp  his  hands,  my  lips  to  meet 
His  sad  petitions  that  I  hold  him  close. 

99 


And  so  the  mother  that  is  in  us  all 
Joined  with  the  love  of  woman  unto  man 
And  gave  me  strength  to  battle  for  his  sake. 
Only,  when  in  his  eyes  I  read  the  look 
That  longed  for  her,  my  swift  resentment  rose; 
And  sometimes  when  he  stroked  the  soft  fair  coil 
Of  ash-gold  hair  that  crowned  my  drooping  head, 
I  almost  flung  the  tender  hand  aside, 
Because  I  knew  he  dreamed  of  other  hair 
That  he  had  loved,  when  eyes  as  soft  as  mine 
Smiled  into  his  and  pledged  their  marriage  vow. 
Then,   sometimes,  friends  of  his  would  come  and 

speak 

Of  that  fair  world  of  yours,  unknown  to  me, 
And  afterward  he  would  be  lost  in  gloom, 
Or  quick  to  let  the  Beast  spring  out  and  grip 
His  shattered  being  in  relentless  sway. 
And  sometimes  they  would  whisper  when  they  went 
Saying,  "Poor  fellow,  he  will  die  some  day 
With  boots  on,  in  some  cheap  and  drunken  brawl. " 
Then  I,  who  heard,  did  register  a  vow 
That  he  I  loved  should  never  perish  so. 
Look  at  him  now  in  fair  and  cleanly  sheets, 
The  picture  of  his  mother  near  his  hand, 
And  all  the  darkened  room  as  sweet  and  fresh 

100 


^6764 


As  was  the  memory  of  his  mother's  home; 

For  when  he  fell  to-day,  I  heard  the  cry 

And  saw  him  lying,  and  I  ran  to  lift 

His  fallen  body  from  the  cold  hard  stones; 

With  strange,  undreamed  of  strength  I  bore  him  up 

And  laid  him  here,  where,  quick,  with  eager  hands 

I  dragged  the  boots  from  off  the  weary  feet 

So  that  harsh  prophecy  should  not  come  true, 

While  he  was  moaning  like  a  little  child 

In  wild  delirium  your  very  name. 

********** 

And  so  I  sent  for  you,  and  you  have  come, 
Although  too  late  to  listen  to  his  words, 
Yet  not  too  late  to  hear  what  I  must  say — 
Surely,  the  Christ  whose  very  name  is  love 
Will  hear  me  too,  for  long  ago  He  said 
Of  that  poor  woman  who  had  been  like  me: 
"She  has  loved  much,  so  much  shall  be  forgiven." 
So  now,  perchance,  my  prayer  for  him  I  love 
Will  reach  the  far  and  heavenly  mercy-seat 
Where  Christ,  who  waits  with  wide,  condoning  arms, 
Shall  welcome  him  because  of  what  he  did — 
Because  he  taught  me  what  a  holy  thing 
Is  human  love,  and  by  his  gentleness 
He  saved  my  vagrant  and  despairing  soul. 

101 


Then  God,  who  is  our  Father,  can  but  save 
His  erring  soul  by  love  that  is  divine — 
What!  you  would  kiss  me?  Yes,  I  take  your  kiss; 
We  are  both  women,  and  we  both  have  loved ! 


102 


COULD    I    FORGET? 


I  forget  that  I  have  held  the  best 
Of  this  Earth's  treasures  in  my  fervent  grasp  — 
Then  should  I  be  content  to  sadly  clasp 
The  wreck  of  beauty,  and  my  soul  might  rest! 

But  I,  who  thought  I  knew  the  perfect  whole, 
Must  still  remember  that  lost  ecstasy, 
And  so  this  lesser  thing  you  proffer  me 
But  sets  the  seal  of  anguish  on  my  soul  ! 


103 


IF    I    COULD    PURGE    MY    LOVE 

TF  I  could  purge  my  love  and  make  it  pure 
*   Of  all  except  the  essence  of  divine; 
If  I  could  turn  to  crystal  flood  its  wine 
And  change  to  peace  its  passion  and  allure, 
Then,  like  a  holy  flame  in  paths  obscure, 
Lift  its  translucent  light  and  make  it  shine 
A  beacon  to  some  other  soul  than  mine, 
Perchance  I  might  my  loneliness  endure. 
But  I  am  weak  and  woman,  and  my  heart 
Falters  before  the  last  great  sacrifice, 
A  stumbling-block  to  stay  my  ardent  will; 
And  thus  I  must  accept  the  lesser  part 
And  try  forever  just  to  blind  my  eyes 
Until  my  craven  heart  is  cold  and  still. 


104 


JUGGERNAUT 

HPHE  love  that  I  would  banish  from  my  heart 
•*•    Has  nothing  for  me  now  but  bitter  pain, 
And  yet  it  holds  me  and  will  not  depart 
Nor  leave  my  tortured  s6ul  to  peace  again — 
And  all  my  brooding  spirit  cries  to  God, 
Just,  for  one  single  hour  to  turn  Time's  wheel, 
Remit  the  sentence,  stay  the  righteous  rod, 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  past  reveal. 
Let  me  once  more  believe  that  Love  was  deep, 
Impregnable,  unbartered  for  desire, 
And  I,  who  sowed  the  wind,  would  gladly  reap 
The  burning  whirlwind  of  its  flaming  fire, — 
But,  no !  the  adamantine  wheels  roll  on, 
And  faith,  and  peace,  and  purity  are  gone! 


105 


IF    YOU    SHOULD    CEASE    TO 
LOVE    ME 

T  F  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  tell  me  so ! 
*  I  could  not  bear  to  feel  your  ardent  hand 
That  waked  the  chords  of  life  to  understand, 
Hold  mine  less  closely;  no,  Beloved,  no; 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  tell  me  so ! 

If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  do  not  dare 
To  meet  me  with  a  masque  of  tenderness; 
I  could  not  stoop  to  suffer  one  caress 
That  any  other  had  a  right  to  share, — 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  do  not  dare! 

If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  do  not  fear — 
I  would  not  have  you  think  I  made  one  claim. 
If  your  great  love  should  pass,  there  is  no  blame; 
For  love  grown  cold,  I  would  not  shed  a  tear, — 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  do  not  fear ! 

106 


If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  let  us  part, 
As  friends  who  part  for  all  eternity; 
Let  us  make  grave  and  reverent  obsequy 
For  what  was  once  our  very  soul  and  heart — 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  let  us  part ! 

But  while  you  love  me,  keep  our  hearts'  deep  faith 

As  some  High  Priest  would  guard  the  holy  place; 

Let  me  not  see  the  shame  upon  your  face 

Of  one  unworthy  of  Love's  vital  breath, 

So  while  you  love  me,  keep  our  hearts'  high  faith ! 

Thus,  if  you  cease  to  love  me,  save  my  soul 
By  having  kept  our  love  so  pure  and  high 
That  if  the  time  must  come  when  it  shall  die, 
I  may  retain  my  treasure  fair  and  whole, — 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me, — save  my  soul! 


107 


'AND   MEN    SHALL    KILL   THAT 
WHICH    THEY    LOVE" 

"  AND  men  shall  kill  that  which  they  love!' 

-*»•  Alas !  that  I  should  prove 
This  sorry  truth ! 
I,  in  whose  eager  youth, 
Myself  did  dedicate 
To  true  love's  high  estate, — 
That  I  should  bring  such  dread  and  dire  fate 
Upon  that,  which  to  me 
Stood  with  the  Deity ! 

Yours  was  a  spirit  that  had  never  quailed, 

No  matter  how  assailed, 

Yours  was  a  heart 

That  would  have  borne  the  dart 

Of  each  indignity 

That  had  not  come  from  me, 

Nor  bowed  a  vanquished  head. 

But  now  I  see 

108 


That  spirit  faint  and  dead, 
Because  I  failed 
In  fine  fidelity ! 

I  cannot  make  it  true 

That  I  have  so  killed  you, 

That  my  strong  arm, 

Which  longed  to  guard  you  safe  from  every  harm, 

Has  been  the  weapon  that  has  dealt  the  blow 

Which  lays  you  low, — 

That  my  weak  Faith 

Has  done  you  unto  Death ! 

I  had  not  thought  to  yield 

To  any  man  my  right  to  stand  as  one 

Who  wooed  the  fiercest  rays  of  Truth's  hot  sun 

To  break  upon  my  shield. 

And  yet — 

After  long  years  of  such  liege  loyalty, 

With  wild  regret 

I  pay  the  sad  arrears 

Of  bartered  Faith's  decree. 

And  you — 

That  which  I  loved  and  killed — 

109 


Your  anguish  now  is  stilled. 

You,  who  once  knew  the  gleam  of  perfect  things, 

You,  who  were  wafted  high  on  Love's  strong  wings, 

Now  fallen  to  earth  by  sudden  heaviness, — 

What  torture  to  the  one  who  struck  the  blow 

That  he  should  know 

That  you,  so  silent  now,  feel  no  distress — 

Dead  of  Love's  littleness! 


110 


FORFEIT 

I\  AUST  there  be  forfeit  of  such  gift  and  grace 

*  "  *  That  we  should  hear  this  faint  and  feeble  cry, 

And  see  frail  fingers  searching  helplessly 

The  frigid  marble  of  the  mother's  face, 

As  though  to  claim  a  loved  and  lost  embrace? 

Is  there  no  answer  to  the  fierce,  blank  "Why?" 

That  springs  unto  our  lips  resentfully 

Until  they  may  not  frame  or  prayer  or  praise? 

Would  life  be  fairer  could  we  understand 

The  law  immutable  of  sacrifice, 

That  we  must  lose  to  gain,  must  pay  the  toll 

Even  of  death?     If  we  could  see  God's  hand 

Perchance  our  forfeit  were  a  petty  price 

Before  the  wonder  that  He  shall  unroll! 


Ill 


MIRIAM,      'LOVED    OF    GOD' 

IX  AIRIAM,  "Loved  of  God,"  my  little  child, 
*  *  *  I  anguished  so  that  thou  mightst  come  to  me, 
And  now  my  being  bleeds  as  poignantly, 
My  mother's  heart  can  scarce  be  reconciled 
That  God  has  called  thee,  pure  and  undefiled, 
Back  to  His  presence.     It  would  seem  that  He, 
Miriam,  "Loved  of  God,"  had  need  of  thee. 
Yet  I  can  still  rejoice  that  thou  hast  smiled 
And  lived  to  bless  me  for  this  fleeting  hour, 
For  in  my  soul  has  grown  the  wondrous  power 
Of  perfect  motherhood,  the  one  sublime 
And  stainless  passion  of  the  human  heart, 
And  though  our  God  has  willed  that  we  should  part, 
I  am  a  mother  to  the  end  of  time! 


112 


FROM    A    MOTOR    IN    MAY 

'""PHE  leaves  of  Autumn  and  the  buds  of  Spring 
*     Meet  and  commingle  on  our  winding  way — 
And  we,  who  glide  into  the  heart  of  May, 
Sense  in  our  souls  a  sudden  quivering. 
What  though  the  flash  of  blue  or  scarlet  wing 
Bid  us  forget  the  night  in  dawning  day, 
Skies  of  November,  sullen,  sad,  and  gray, 
Once  hung  above  this  withered  covering. 
There  is  no  Spring  that  Autumn  has  not  known, 
Nor  any  Autumn  Spring  has  not  divined, — 
The  odor  of  dead  flowers  on  the  wind 
Shall  but  enrich  a  fairer  blossoming, 
And  though  they  shiver  from  a  breeze  outblown, 
The  leaves  of  Autumn  guard  the  buds  of  Spring. 


113 


SPRING    ON    THE    MOUNTAIN 

f  OVE  of  mine,  come  climb  the  height 
•— '  Far  beyond  the  thirsty  plain, 
There  we'll  find  our  lost  delight, 
There  the  Spring  is  born  again ! 
High  above  this  dreamy  dell 
Where  her  first-born  flowers  fade 
We  shall  see  her  hi  the  spell 
Of  her  coming.     In  the  glade 

Where  the  balsam  branches  spread 
Shadows  o'er  the  deeper  blue 
Of  the  violets  we  thought  dead, 
There  the  bellwort's  golden  hue 
Rivals  still  the  sunlight's  gleam, — 
Come !  my  heart  is  wild  and  gay 
With  the  glory  of  the  dream 
Of  a  reincarnate  May ! 
114 


Love  of  mine,  I  cannot  wait, 

For  our  joy  attends,  aloof — 

Let  us  go  with  hearts  elate 

There  to  put  it  to  the  proof. 

What  if,  as  we  meet  the  Spring 

Evanescent,  frail  and  fair, 

Swift,  on  its  elusive  wing, 

Our  lost  youth  should  greet  us  there! 


115 


SONNET    TO    A    SATYR 

LINES   WRITTEN   FOR   A   FIGURE   CARVED   BY   PHILIP 
SMITH 


WILD  creature  of  the  woods  whose  merry 
hoof 

Has  trampled  many  a  fine  and  tender  blade 
Amid  the  forest  where  remote,  aloof, 
Thou  sportest  in  nymph-haunted  sylvan  glade. 
Anon,  with  reed  against  thy  mirthful  lips, 
Pan's  music  thou  evokest,  shrill  and  clear, 
Until  the  flying  bird,  affrighted,  dips 
Her  far  spread  wings  that  she  may  pause  and  hear 
What  message  she  may  find  of  swift  alarm 
In  your  quick  note;  but  soon  again  she  sweeps 
The  broad  horizon  without  thought  of  harm, 
Seeing  thee  lie  there  while  Dame  Nature  keeps 
Her  tender  watch  above  thy  graceful  rest, 
Holding  thy  form  against  her  loving  breast. 


116 


RUNNING    IN    THE    RYE 

•"THERE'S  a  boy,  a  little  fellow, 
*    And  he's  running  in  the  rye — 
Tumbled  hair  with  tints  of  yellow; 
All  the  color  of  the  sky 

Shining  in  the  starry  wonder  of  his  deep  and  dreamy 
eye. 

How  he  races,  as  he  chases 
First  a  gleaming  butterfly, 
Swift  to  follow  then  a  swallow — 
Dipping,  floating,  sailing  by, 

Skimming   o'er   the   brimming   billows   of   the   un 
dulating  rye! 

He  is  Spring-time,  he  is  sing-time, 
And  the  joy  that  grief  has  slain 
Wells  within  me  like  a  torrent 
Till  it  purges  me  of  pain — 
And  the  passion  that  I  bear  him 
Floods  my  heart  with  youth  again ! 

117 


BOB    WHITE 

T  HAVE  stumbled  in  the  stubble, 
*   I  have  lingered  in  the  lane, 
I  have  taken  every  trouble 

Just  to  hear  your  voice  again, 
For  I  want  to  see  you  closer, 

Though  I'm  sure  that  you  are  plain ! 

Now  I  know  just  how  a  lover 
Feels  about  a  "hot  pursuit." 

It  was  broiling  in  the  clover, 
And  I  could  have  been  a  brute 

If  I  only  might  have  found  you, 
But  you  suddenly  were  mute! 

After  singing  all  the  morning — 
Sometimes  late  into  the  night — 

When  I  follow — without  warning 
Then  you  take  to  shameless  flight, 

For  I  never,  never  find  you, 
Most  elusive  Robert  White! 
118 


You're  delusive,  Mr.  Bobby — 
That  is  why  I  like  you  so. 

You're  intrusive,  that's  your  hobby, 
Or  at  least  you  strike  me  so — 

You're  exclusive  and  so  snobby, 
All  your  traits  are  poor,  I  know. 

Yet  I  stumble  in  the  stubble, 
And  I  linger  in  the  lane. 

Pray,  why  do  I  take  such  trouble 
When  I  hear  your  note  again? 

For  I  know  that  if  I  found  you 
I  should  think  you  very  plain! 


119 


JUNE    ON    THE    MOUNTAIN 

T^HERE'S  a  rhododendron  thicket 
*    Where  the  Laurel  River  flows, 
Shining  leaf  and  gleaming  blossom, 
Pearly  white  and  radiant  rose, 
Shading  deep,  and  ever  deeper 
Where  the  richer  purple  glows. 

June  is  waning  on  the  mountain, 
And  the  kalmia's  petals  fall, 
But  the  rhododendron  thicket 
Rises  like  a  glistening  wall — 
Twining,  blinding  all  our  pathway 
Under  hemlocks  straight  and  tall. 

As  the  sun  sinks  over  Round  Top, 
All  the  glittering  bud  and  bloom 
Seem  to  vanish  in  the  shadow 

. 

Of  the  valley's  sudden  gloom — 
Winds  amid  the  pines  primeval 
Shiver  with  the  summer's  doom! 
120 


INDIAN    SUMMER 

CAIR  fallacy  of  Nature  whose  pale  skies 

*•      Would  cheat  us  with  a  mockery  of  Spring, 

As  though  behind  them  undiscovered  lies 

The  great  renewal, — Indian  Summer, — bring 

Back  to  my  heart  the  glory  that  was  June, 

Before  the  withered  bud,  the  fallen  leaf. 

Mirage  of  Autumn  hours — I  commune 

Once  more  with  joy's  fulfilment  in  the  brief 

Sweet  ecstasy  that  you  afford  the  heart. 

I  yield  in  acquiescence,  lulled  by  scent 

Wafted  from  breezes  that  have  played  their  part 

In  softer  moments;  now,  alas !  but  lent 

By  Nature  in  a  garment  of  disguise 

To  blind,  with  sweets  foregone,  my  willing  eyes. 


121 


A    FRAGMENT 

!  quiet  hour  of  happy  vagrancy ! 
To  float  upon  the  river's  tranquil  breast, 
Content  to  lie  and  watch  how  aimlessly 
It  follows  its  meandering,  random  quest 
Through    meadows    where   the   noontide's    drowsy 

hush 
Is  only  quickened  by  a  sylvan  thrush. 

Apart,  as  though  in  some  far  golden  dream, 
I  lie  and  muse;  with  indolent  delight 
I  catch  the  shadows  where  the  lilies  gleam 
In  serried  rows  of  yellow  and  of  white, 
And  wonder  that  the  world  is  so  in  tune — 
Till  I  remember  you  are  here, — and  June! 


122 


BY  AN  OPEN  WINDOW  IN 
CHURCH 

T  HEAR  the  music  of  the  murmuring  breeze, 
*   It  mingles  with  the  preacher's  quiet  word; 
Dim,  holy  memories  are  waked  and  stirred, 
I  seem  to  touch  once  more  my  mother's  knees. 
Christ's  human  love,  His  spirit  mysteries 
Envelop  me.     It  is  as  though  I  heard 
An  angel  choir  in  the  singing  bird 
That  floats  above  the  fair  full-foliaged  trees. 
The  old  sweet  Faith  is  singing  in  my  breast 
With  peace  in  Nature's  summer  subtly  blent, 
All  of  my  being  breathes  a  deep  content — 
Life  and  its  unremitting,  baffled  quest 
Fade  into  this  rich  sense  of  perfect  rest — 
My  soul,  renewed,  is  steeped  in  sacrament. 


123 


MOUNT    BALSAM 

[  STAND  upon  the  heights  beneath  the  blue, 

Wide,  sunlit  spaces  of  a  sky,  cloud-torn. 
Below,  far  ranges  on  my  vision  dawn, 
Transfused  in  soft  and  amethystine  hue. 
I  feel,  perchance,  as  some  great  god  would  do 
At  the  first  break  of  an  Olympian  morn, 
When  to  his  primal  senses  freshly  borne, 
He  caught  the  wonder  of  the  world  he  knew. 
So  might  Apollo  thrill,  when  flying  rein 
And  fiery  chariot  flung  the  day  outspread; 
Thus  Proserpine,  as  all  the  fields  of  grain 
Blossomed  beneath  her  cool,  creative  tread; 
Or  Jupiter,  with  joy  that  stabbed  like  pain, 
Looked  in  the  eyes  of  Juno,  newly  wed ! 


124 


raiy 


THE    METROPOLITAN    TOWER 
FROM    ORANGE    MOUNTAIN 

AN  oval  opal,  shining  in  the  mist, 
**  Set  amid  battlements  which,  like  a  dream, 
Some  fairy  palace  guarding  close  would  seem. 
Shot  through  with  azure  and  with  amethyst, 
You  rise  a  beacon,  by  the  breezes  kissed, 
Incarnate  of  the  heights  that  would  redeem, 
Forever  beckoning,  wooing,  as  the  gleam 
In  longing  eyes  that  wait  at  some  dear  tryst. 
Like  a  mirage  in  fever-fetid  lands 
Luring  the  traveller  from  the  heat  accursed, 
You  seem  a  magic  thing  not  built  with  hands, 
But  moulded  to  allay  our  vision's  thirst. 
Above  the  sullen  city's  sordid  slime 
You  point  us  upward  to  the  far  sublime ! 


125 


VERA    CRUZ 

'"THEY  called  for  the  Youth  of  the  nation. 

And  swift  at  the  call, 
Marines  and  the  Middies  were  ready 

To  fight  and  to  fall. 

They  dreamed  of  a  past  that  was  glory, 

And  glory  to  be, 
Of  a  flag  that  was  waving  in  triumph 

On  land  and  on  sea. 

No  war !  But  a  mother  is  weeping, 

A  father  grown  old — 
No  war !  But  a  harvest  is  reaping 

Of  hearts  that  are  cold. 

No  war !  But  the  Country  was  calling 
And  theirs  not  to  choose, 

The  North  and  the  South  had  their  heroes, 
And  so — Vera  Cruz  ! 
126 


TO    FORBES    ROBERTSON,    AS 
HAMLET 

INTERPRETER  of  mighty  moods  and  men, 
*   Creator  of  a  Hamlet  so  supreme, 
Shakespeare's  incarnate  thought  is  born  again 
To  shape  us  Life — the  substance  and  the  dream. 
And  yet  thy  very  Hamlet  falsifies 
His  own  sad  words.     Imperious  Caesar's  clay 
May  stop  a  hole,  but  Caesar's  will  denies 
The  earth,  the  ages,  and  their  brief  decay. 
The  immemorial  cycles  count  him  great, 
Just  as  forever  from  the  wheel  of  Fame, 
Each  revolution  shall  but  dedicate 
Another  spark  to  thy  immortal  name. 
"The  rest  is  silence." — Words  may  not  impart 
The  majesty  and  magic  of  thy  art. 


127 


ABSENT   THEE  FROM   FELICITY 
AWHILE" 

TO  J.  S.  E. 

BSENT  thee  from  felicity  awhile"— 

Your  voice,  sonorous,  lingers  on  the  line, 
I  see  the  tender  ardor  of  your  smile 
And  meet   your   eyes   that   claim   the   thought   in 

mine. 

'Twould  seem  you  answer  only  to  the  sound 
Of  Shakespeare's  melody,  your  smile  and  eyes 
Though  lit  with  depth  of  meaning,  have  not  found 
The  desolation  that  half  hidden  lies 
Behind  the  genius  of  the  perfect  word; 
But  I,  being  woman,  not  alone  to  art, 
But  to  the  world's  great  loneliness  am  stirred, 
Conscious  of  all  the  emptiness  of  heart 
That  I  shall  feel  when  you  no  more  for  me 
With  loyal  love  can  make  felicity ! 


128 


THE    POET 

THE  Poet  should  be  one  who  sings, 
Whose  rhythmic  music  lilts  and  rings 
With  images  inspired; 
And  he  must  be  the  Seer  who  sees 
Beyond  his  utmost  melodies, 
Until,  with  soul  afired, 
He  brings  the  waiting  world  the  word 
That  only  Seer  and  Singer  heard ! 


129 


HOSTAGE 

TIFE,  wilt  thou  wait  awhile 

*— '  And  let  me  smile? 

Before  the  stress  and  turmoil  have  begun, 

Grant  me  one  hour, 
One  hour  of  golden  dalliance  in  the  sun, 

The  fair,  sole  dower 
To  hold  forever  close  against  my  breast, 

And  so  forever  rest 
In  happy  knowledge  that  joy  has  been  mine; 

That  in  my  veins  like  wine 
Has  run  the  glamour  of  the  sunlight's  glow; 

That  winds  so  soft  and  low 
Have  brought  me  fragrance  of  the  distant  brine, 

Or  honey-sweet  amid  the  Spring-touched  trees 
Have  swept  the  scent  of  these 

Into  my  eager  senses,  till  I  seem 
A  part  of  my  own  dream, 

My  dream  of  youth 
And  nature's  flowering, 

Life,  let  me  sing ! 

130 


Wilt  thou  not  stand  aside 

Until  with  all  the  fair  world's  gifts  allied 
I  shall  have  armor  of  delight  to  bring 

Against  the  fierce,  hot  sting 
Of  thine  assault  when  that  dread  day  shall  come? 

I  promise  thee,  O  Life,  I  shall  be  dumb, 
Nor  utter  one  reproach,  if  only  now 

I  may  go  forth  with  gay  uplifted  brow 
And  meet  my  golden  hour  of  happy  fate — 

Life,  wilt  thou  wait? 

I  am  no  coward — when  the  trumpet  calls, 

Valiant,  my   feet    shall    climb    the   crumbling 

walls, 
My  breast  be  bared  to  hail  of  shot  and  shell; 

But  now,  while  all  is  well, 
Let  me  hold  fast 

To  this  sweet  hour  that  it  shall  ever  last, 
A  hostage  for  the  future  and  the  fight. 

Thus,  when  the  darkness  comes  and  clash  of 

arms 
And  all  my  soul  is  sick  with  fierce  alarms, 

The  healing  light, 
The  peace  of  what  has  been, 

Shall  guide  me  through  the  din, 
131 


And  pledge  me  promise  of  what  is  to  be; 

Thus  may  I  see 
My  happy  hour  once  more  restored  to  me, 

Transfigured,  dim  perchance,  yet  glorified 
Although  with  Death  allied ! 

So  be  it,  then — if  now, 
Stern  Life,  if  thou 

Wilt  wait  a  little  while, 
And  let  me  smile! 


132 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE 

"\  \  THY  should  I  linger  in  these  cramping  walls 
»  *     And  yield  my  being  to  their  dull  constraint  ? 
Why  should  I  bow  before  this  dread  disease 
That  creeps  so  slowly  through  my  languid  limbs 
That  it  may  never  reach  my  burning  heart 
Before  it  kills  the  fire  of  my  brain, 
And  leaves  me  with  half -blurred,  unseeing  eyes? 
Surely  no  gracious  God  has  so  decreed, 
No  God  whose  name  is  Love.     Love  could  not  work 
For  the  beloved  such  a  dire  fate — 
To  meet  the  impotence  of  yielding  flesh, 
To  feel  the  flickering  of  waning  sense, 
And  yet,  to  know  that  years  unending  stretch 
In  dim  succession  ere  all  life  decay. 
I  am  no  coward — I  could  bear  even  that, 
If,  by  my  living,  I  could  ease  one  pain 
Of  one  I  love,  or  shield  a  single  heart 
To  whom  I  owe  a  crumb  of  fealty. 
But  in  the  watches  of  the  long  black  night 

133 


I  take  account  of  each  and  every  one, 

And  can  but  see  them  better  for  the  deed 

Which  I  do  purpose  ere  another  dawn. 

They  who  are  young  can  have  no  need  of  me, 

For  what  has  youth  to  do  with  such  as  I? 

Youth  with  its  splendid,  gay  inconsequence — 

Its  laughter  in  the  very  eyes  of  fate, 

Its  daring  in  the  face  of  destiny — 

Youth    reaches    for    the    glove    that    Life    throws 

down 

And,  smiling,  flings  it  back  with  unconcern. 
I  know,  for  I,  too,  picked  the  gauntlet  up, 
Although  my  youth  was  riddled  through  with 

age— 

The  premature,  sad  age  that  comes  with  care, 
And  cruel  disillusion  with  a  world 
That  turns  a  cheap,  inglorious,  shallow  cheek 
To  many  a  valiant  and  resentful  heart. 

Why  should  we  dread  this  door  that  we  call  Death — 
'Tis  but  the  other  end  of  Life,  we  know — 
Birth  at  one  end,  we  may  not  understand, 
Death  at  the  other  end,  unfathomed  too — 
Why  should  we  fear  to  meet  it,  when  our  day 
Of  use  in  this  strange  world  is  past  and  gone? 

134 


I  read  of  one  who  in  the  Antarctic  cold 

Wandered  apart  to  die,  because  he  felt 

Himself  a  hindrance  rather  than  a  help, 

With  weight  of  sickness  and  of  suffering — 

And  all  the  world  cried,  "Gallant,  selfless  one!" 

And  yet,  because  I  lie  within  four  walls 

I  may  be  deemed  a  coward,  though  my  heart 

Has  struggled  long,  to  choose  the  nobler  way — 

I,  too,  am  selfless,  nor  will  courage  fail — 

Full  armored  then,  I  greet  my  comrade,  Death! 


135 


LIFE,    A    QUESTION? 

TIFE?  and  worth  living? 

*— '  Yes,  with  each  part  of  us — 

Hurt  of  us,  help  of  us,  hope  of  us,  heart  of  us, 

Life  is  worth  living. 

Ah !  with  the  whole  of  us, 

Will  of  us,  brain  of  us,  senses  and  soul  of  us. 

Is  life  worth  living? 

Aye,  with  the  best  of  us, 

Heighths  of  us,  depths  of  us, — 

Life  is  the  test  of  us! 


136 


SOLUTION 

T  ASKED  you  if  you  loved  me  as  of  old, 

*•  And  in  your  eyes  I  read  a  questioning, 

As  though  you  feared  your  ardor  had  grown  cold, 

And  Love  no  more  were  such  a  wondrous  thing; 

But  even  as  I  searched  that  look,  my  own 

Reached  to  the  vision  you  have  never  known. 

And  so,  through  all  your  doubt,  my  seeing  soul 
Smiled,  for  it  knew  you  could  not  fathom  love, 
For  none  have  scaled  the  heights  nor  dreamed  the 

whole, 

Till  Death's  blank  silence  comes  the  test  to  prove — 
Had  I  not  met  its  echoless  despair, 
How  could  I  know  that  your  deep  love  was  there? 

But  I  have  walked  with  that  grim  comrade,  Pain, 
And  yearned  with  baffled  longing  for  a  word 
That  lips,  once  joyous,  may  not  speak  again 

137 


To  happy  ears  that  knew  not  what  they  heard— 
I,  who  have  anguished  through  the  endless  night, 
Can  measure  all  your  love  for  me  aright ! 

And  so  I  know  if  I  should  pass  away, 

The  question  in  your  eyes  would  pa§s  with  me; 

If  I  should  die  before  another  day, 

Your  heart  would  bleed  for  mine  as  poignantly 

As  though  we  had  been  severed  in  the  Spring 

Of  our  great  passion's  pregnant  blossoming. 

Death  shall  interpret  what  Life  may  not  see, 
And  eyes  that  bless  our  own  with  love  and  laughter 
Are  only  fully  prized  when  mystery 
Curtains  the  present  from  the  dim  hereafter. 
What  fruitless,  fond  assurance  you  would  give, 
If  I  were  dead,  and  words  could  make  me  live! 


138 


A    KENTUCKY    GRAVE 

HPHERE  lies  a  lonely  grave  beneath  tall  trees 
*     In  that  fair  State  where  birds  afire  flash 
Above  the  azure-purpled  waves  of  grass. 
Upon  the  nameless  stone  is  but  a  date, 
Mid- June,  when  all  Kentucky's  loveliness 
Was  at  its  full,  and  on  a  year  before 
The  cruel  war  had  ravaged  the  sweet  South. 
But  though  no  word  is  on  the  barren  stone, 
The  legend  runs  that  one  both  fair  and  young — 
Ah !  passing  fair  and  brimmed  with  eager  youth — 
Lies  cold  and  still  and  nameless  'neath  the  sod. 
For  in  that  year  the  old-time  hostelry, 
That  still  stands  by  the  mound  where  she  is  laid, 
Was  gay  with  dance,  and  song,  and  revelry, 
And  all  the  Blue  Grass  State  had  gathered  there 
As  they  were  wont  to  do  in  other  days. 
On  that  warm  mid-June  night,  all  suddenly, 
She  stood  within  the  hall,  while  her  dark  maid 
With  coal-black  hands  unloosed  the  fleecy  cloak, 
And  every  eye  was  drawn  unto  the  gleam 

139 


Of  jewels  at  her  waist  and  round  her  throat 
That  seemed  a  lily,  dew-dropped  in  the  dawn. 
Her  strange  dark  eyes  were  flashing  jewels,  too, 
Set  in  the  pallor  of  her  dreamy  face 
That  turned  to  one  as  though  his  life  was  hers. 
Now,  as  the  rhythmic  music  of  the  dance 
Fell  on  her  ears,  her  eyes  sought  his  and  sank 
Into  their  depths  as  one  who  drowning  steeps 
His  failing  memory  in  things  best  loved — 
Then  slowly  to  the  soft  and  sensuous  sound 
Of  flute  and  viol  and  of  violin, 
They  floated  in  a  circled  harmony; 
And  in  her  eyes  one  saw  the  love  that  leaned 
And  lavished  everything,  and  on  her  lips 
An  evanescent  smile  that  came  and  went. 
She  seemed  a  pure  white  flame  of  loveliness ! 
********* 

The  music  ceased,  and  as  the  last  sweet  note 
Wafted  away  to  star-lit  depths  of  June, 
She  sank,  and  swooned  in  sinking,  to  the  floor 
And  died,  without  a  murmur,  in  his  arms. 
They  laid  her  on  a  snow-white  couch,  and  left 
Her  weeping  woman  crouching  at  her  feet, 
And  her  dark  lover  kneeling  with  her  hand — 
Listless  as  lily  when  the  dew  is  gone — 

140 


Clasped  in  his  own  to  watch  the  weary  night. 
But  when  the  dawn  broke,  lo !  they  found  her  there 
In  utter  loneliness,  for  both  had  fled ! 
So  runs  the  story — none  have  ever  heard 
More  than  these  lines  have  told,  and  thus  the  stone 
Bears  nothing  on  it  but  the  lonely  date, 
And  all  who  come  must  listen  to  the  tale. 
********* 

One,  learning  of  the  legend,  lays  a  rose 
Upon  the  mound  and  leaves  the  gift  of  tears 
To  keep  its  petals  fresh,  because  of  grief 
That  one  so  young  should  perish  ere  the  bud 
Had  fully  flowered  in  its  blossoming. 
Ah,  happy  heart  that  weeps  at  such  a  fate! 

But  still  another  comes,  with  laggard  step 
And  eyes  opaque  from  disillusion's  blow, 
Whose  lips  once  long  ago  knew  laughter  well, 
Now  parched  with  pallid  parody  of  mirth 
And  curved  with  scorn  that  any  pity  one 
Who  never  can  know  aught  but  Youth  and  Faith — 
Ah,  bitter  heart  that  smiles  at  such  a  fate! 

And  we  who  ponder  on  the  twice-told  tale, 
Shall  we  then  laugh,  or  weep,  or  turn  aside, 

141 


Perchance,  and  envy  her?     Had  she  not  lived — 
She  who  had  loved,  and  danced,  and  dreamed,  and 

died, 

Like  some  resplendent  butterfly  that  wings 
To  immortality  in  one  brief  hour! 


142 


LOVE    IS    A    TALENT 

JOVE  is  a  talent,  like  the  gift  of  song 
•*— ' '  That  thrills  its  cadenced  passion  on  the  ear, 
So  Love,  with  harmony  as  rich  and  clear 
Strikes  on  the  chord  of  Life,  a  vibrant,  strong, 
Full  note,  that  turns  to  right  the  cruel  wrong, 
That  lifts  the  lonely,  stills  the  starting  tear, 
Heals  the  bruised  heart  and  casteth  out  all  fear 
With  peace  that  only  can  to  Love  belong. 

But  if  the  singer  sing  not,  then  the  high, 
Sweet  resonance  shall  harsh  and  tuneless  fall — 
Thus  Love,  if  only  garnered  and  not  given, 
Of  its  own  atrophy  must  droop  and  die — 
The  dowered  of  Love  must  lean  and  lavish  all 
Their  boon  on  Earth,  their  Sesame  to  Heaven! 


143 


IF    I    WERE    NOT    SO    YOUNG 

IF  I  were  not  so  young,  the  vistaed  years 

*   Had  not  for  me  such  pale,  perspective  dread, 

For  I  could  turn,  beneath  this  veil  of  tears, 

To  swift  reunion  with  my  longed-for  Dead — 

But  Youth  is  mine,  and  all  its  baffled  fires 

Burn  fiercely  on  within  my  ravaged  breast, 

And  all  its  ardent,  innocent  desires 

Defiant  still  their  heritage  attest. 

My  blurred,  blank  gaze  that  once   was   wont  to 

shine 
With   prescient   glow    in    what   fair   Time   should 

bring, 

Now  scans  Life's  far  and  faint  horizon  line 
Knowing  that  Death  alone  shall  hold  no  sting — 
My  dumb  despair,  when  it  can  find  a  tongue, 
May  only  falter,  "Were  I  not  so  young!" 


144 


LOVE'S    ARREARS 

T  WAS  in  love  with  life  and  then  I  died — 

*  Because  I  lost  the  thing  that  I  loved  best. 

In  my  embittered  soul  with  arid  zest 

Sad  disillusion,  with  fierce  hate  allied, 

Battled  with  murdered  love  and  wounded  pride; 

And  harsh  resentment,  harbored  in  my  breast, 

Festered  the  wound  in  my  dead  soul,  till  Rest 

Even  the  Rest  of  Death  could  not  abide. 

My  holier  self  in  grief  unholy  lost 

Struggled  to  win  my  soul  from  sullen  shame 

And  lift  my  eyes  through  sacrificial  tears, 

But  though  I  proudly  paid  the  crucial  cost 

I  wept  for  Love's  dear  sake  and  Love's  fair  fame 

And  died  again  before  lost  Love's  arrears. 


145 


WHICH? 

"\  \  7E  ask  that  Love  shall  rise  to  the  divine, 
*  *     And  yet  we  crave  him  very  human,  too; 
Our  hearts  would  drain  the  crimson  of  his  wine, 
Our  souls  despise  him  if  he  prove  untrue ! 
Poor  Love !  I  hardly  see  what  you  can  do ! 
We  know  all  human  things  are  weak  and  frail, 
And  yet  we  claim  that  very  part  of  you, 
Then,  inconsistent,  blame  you  if  you  fail. 
When  you  would  soar,  'tis  we  who  clip  your  wings, 
Although  we  weep  because  you  faint  and  fall. 
Alas !  it  seems  we  want  so  many  things, 
That  no  dear  love  could  ever  grant  them  all ! 
Which  shall  we  choose,  the  human,  or  divine, 
The  crystal  stream,  or  yet  the  crimson  wine? 


146 


IN    PRISON 

OHE  is  a  murderess?     Nay,  it  is  not  true — 

^  Such  eyes,  such  gentle  eyes,  such  loving  eyes, 

And  then  her  smile — it  is  so  gentle,  too. 

You  held  her  poor  hard  hands,  and  spoke  to  her 

In  tender  tones,  as  mother  to  a  child, 

And  she,  with  quick-caught  breath,  cried:  "Anna's 

good; 

So  good,  dear  lady,  always  as  you  wish." 
And  with  those  same  adoring,  pleading  eyes 
She  seemed  to  drink  your  kind,  protecting  smile. 
We  gave  her  flowers,  gay  with  Autumn  sun, 
That  we  had  plucked  in  freedom,  and  the  thought 
Stabbed  in  my  heart.    She  murmured  little  words, 
In  that  soft  tongue  that  poets  love  so  well, 
And  pressed  the  blossoms  to  her  patient  breast. 
So  then  we  left  her  by  her  grated  cell, 
Hearing  the  prison  door  with  dubious  clang 
Swing  back  behind  us.     Oh !  the  sunset  light 
Never  had  colors  that  were  so  divine, 

147 


Never  was  riotous  wind  so  fresh  and  free, 

And  the  pale  moon  was  shining  dimly,  too, 

As  though  fair  nature  held  high  carnival 

Of  all  her  beauty;  lavish  in  her  gifts 

That  we  might  know  the  contrast  of  our  joy 

To  that  poor  inarticulate  sister's  fate. 

A  murderess?     Then  you  told  me — and  the  tale 

Sent  the  hot  blood  in  torrents  to  my  head 

Until  my  eyes  were  blinded  with  her  pain. 

They  had  been  boy  and  girl  in  Italy, 

Had  danced  and  sung  together  by  the  shore, 

And  she  was  always  his,  had  never  known 

Father  or  mother,  and  the  priest  had  smiled 

Because  their  pennies  were  too  few  to  give 

That  he  should  bind  them  with  a  marriage  vow ! 

But  she  was  her  Luigi's,  he  was  hers — 

And  when  his  gay,  adventurous  spirit  willed, 

She  followed  him  to  this  far  land  of  ours — 

"We  think  we  find  much  gold,  and  make  our  home," 

She  said,  and  then  a  glory  swept  her  face. 

She  told  of  how  he  worked,  and  every  day 

She    brought    with    her    own    hands — ah !    patient 

toil- 

The  stones  with  which  to  build  the  little  house. 
And  so  it  grew  with  all  the  long,  hard  days 

148 


Till  one  Spring  morning,  lo  !  the  home  was  done. 

She  was  so  tired  that  her  eyes  were  dim, 

Her  once  straight  body  twisted  out  of  shape 

With  heavy  loads,  but  all  her  heart  was  glad — 

Now  it  was  done  and  she  could  rest  awhile. 

And  then  he  came.     Looking  her  in  the  eyes, 

Laughing,  he  said:  "This  home  is  not  for  you — 

You  are  grown  old  and  ugly — Anna,  go — 

A  fair  young  girl  will  share  this  home  with  me." 

Dumb,  like  a  stricken  dog,  she  turned  and  went — 

He  was  Luigi,  and  she  must  obey ! 

She  hardly  knew  what  happened  after  that, 

She  had  not  died,  it  is  so  hard  to  die — 

Yes,  she  had  worked  and  earned  her  daily  bread — 

And    days    went   by — days    pass    when    souls    are 

dead — 

Just  as  they  pass  when  hearts  are  full  of  song — 
And  so  a  laggard  year  dragged  to  its  close. 
The  Spring  had  come  again — the  gracious  Spring! 
When  all  the  earth  is  redolent  with  joy — 
And  happiness  the  birthright  of  each  heart. 
Ah !  but  the  Spring  has  bitter  pain  for  one 
Who  dreads  its  coming,  fears  the  long  sweet  days 
Fashioned  for  bursting  blossoms  and  for  love. 
All  suddenly  she  came  to  life  again — 

149 


She,  who  had  died  that  day  the  year  before. 
Her  home,  the  little  home  her  hands  had  made, 
Surely  it  could  not  hurt  Luigi  if 
She    looked    once    more    at    what    her    toil    had 

wrought ! 

Her  hurrying  feet  could  hardly  carry  her, 
So  eager  was  she.     In  her  weary  brain 
There  was  no  thought  of  evil,  only  thirst, 
For  that  sweet  past  consumed  her  like  a  flame. — 
There  was  the  porch,  and  on  it  was  a  girl, 
Young  as  she  once  had  been,  with  curling  hair 
Falling  on  cheek  and  breast,  and  in  her  arms 
A  dark-eyed  baby  clinging  to  that  breast; 
She  leaned  across  the  railing  and  she  laughed — 
Luigi,  too,  had  laughed  a  year  ago ! — 
And  laughing,  called  in  shrill  and  taunting  tones: 
"You  are  the  woman  that  Luigi  kept 
Until  you  grew  too  old — you  had  no  child 
To  bind  his  love.     Look  what  I've  given  him." 
She  laughed  again;  mocking,  she  held  the  babe 
As  though  to  give  it  into  Anna's  arms — 
Those  arms  that  knew  Luigi's,  and  had  clung 
In  love's  first  ecstasy  around  his  neck 
In  primitive  passion.     Now,  that  love,  betrayed. 
Called  on  the  savage  that  is  in  us  all, 

150 


Caught  at  her  broken  heart,  her  blazing  brain — 
A  flash  of  steel,  and  the  dread  deed  was  done — 
What  wonder?  Ah,  the  pity  of  it  all ! 

Twelve  years  of  prison,  did  you  say,  twelve  years 
Have  passed  already  in  that  little  cell? 
A  life-long  sentence,  but  commuted  now, 
Because  of  good  behavior  ?     Ah  !  those  eyes — 
Such  tender,  quiet,  sad,  beseeching  eyes — 
Eyes  of  a  murderess!     And  the  man  is  free! 


151 


GOD'S    FAIR    WORLD 

IN  some  old  book  I  read  a  legend  quaint 
*   Of  one  who  wandered  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
One  who  had  sinned  and  suffered,  turned  a  saint — • 
He  never  looked  upon  their  like  again. 

His  eyes  drawn  inward,  shriving  his  sad  soul 
By  counting  over  the  monotonous  bead, 
He  put  away  the  joy  of  nature's  whole — 
Musing  upon  his  own  poor,  trivial  deed. 

Nor  would  he  look  upon  the  glad  sun  rise 
Shedding  a  hope  reborn  adown  the  day, 
He  dared  not  glory  in  the  sunset  skies 
But  ever  turned  his  eyes  within,  to  pray. 

Year  after  year  behind  his  narrow  wall 
In  garb  of  monk  with  crucifix  on  breast, 
His  head  averted  from  the  sight  of  all, 
He  built  his  pathway  to  eternal  rest. 

152 


And  when  his  time  was  come,  with  faith  assured 
He  met  his  hour  with  longing  satisfied, 
Content  that  God  should  know  what  he  endured; 
Alone  as  he  had  lived,  alone  he  died. 

Swift  to  the  gate  of  Heaven,  the  legend  ran, 

His  soul  was  wafted.     Peter,  at  the  gate, 

Spake   but   this    word,    "Loved   you    your   fellow 

man?" 
And  led  him  to  the  throne  where  suppliants  wait. 

And  there,  so  runs  the  tale,  the  God  of  Love 
In  majesty  upon  his  throne  empearled 
Leaned  to  the  saint  and  said,  from  heights  above: 
"What  did  you  think,  O  man,  of  my  fair  world?" 

Kneeling,  the  saint  turned  sinner,  humbly  prayed: 
"O  Lord,  my  selfish  eyes  were  blind  with  pain; 
I  knew  not  your  fair  world;  I  was  afraid — 
Grant  me  to  serve  my  fellow  man  again!" 


153 


SPRING    AND    GRIEF 

I  SEE  my  love  in  every  little  child 

*  Whose  eyes  meet  mine  with  laughter  in  their 

blue; 

I  hear  him  in  the  note,  half  sweet,  half  wild, 
When  bird  calls  bird  their  promise  to  renew; 
I  feel  him  in  the  ardor  of  the  sun 
That  woos  the  fragrance  from  the  waking  flower, 
And  maple  buds,  rose  flushed  by  beauty,  won 
To  swift  fulfilment  of  the  Sun  God's  power. 
The  world  is  young  once  more  as  he  was  young, 
With  life  and  love  reborn  in  everything — 

0  singing  hearts !    My  own  is  faint  and  wrung; 
The  rapture  and  the  riot  of  the  Spring 

Can  but  enhance  the  throb  of  my  despair — 

1  miss  him  most  when  joy  is  everywhere! 


154 


AUTUMN    AND    GRIEF 

THE  short  dark  day,  the  chill  of  sombre  skies, 
Are  far  less  poignant  to  my  brooding  heart 
Than  Spring  with  all  her  pregnant  mysteries, 
And  promises  in  which  he  has  no  part. 
Autumn  is  kind  to  one  whose  soul  must  weep, 
While  radiant  Spring  with  callous  cruelty 
Awakens  every  longing  that  would  sleep, 
To  stir  once  more  the  joy  that  was  to  be. 
Autumn !    You  are  the  healer,  for  in  truth 
You  seem  to  say,  all  things  must  change  and  die. 
Spring  slays  me  with  the  memory  of  his  youth, 
Cheats  me  with  happiness  that  passed  me  by — 
But  Autumn  murmurs,  with  pale  lips  and  cold, 
"Death  alone  spares  us,  for  we  soon  grow  old!" 


155 


GETHSEMANE 

A  LONE  we  kneel  in  our  Gethsemane 
'**  And  blame  our  brother  that  he  watcheth  not ! 
We  crave  not  him  but  drain  his  sympathy, 
All  but  our  own  fierce  grief  have  we  forgot. 
We  cry,  "Canst  thou  not  watch  with  us  one  hour?" 
And,  yet,  aloof,  we  bow,  a  thing  apart. 
Grief-scarred,  we  have  nor  wish,  nor  will,  nor  power 
To  clasp  our  brother  to  our  bleeding  heart. 
He  who  was  closest  may  not  reach  the  soul, 
Shrouded  and  veiled,  by  anguish  felled  and  slain; 
How  can  he  watch,  unfainting,  when  the  whole 
That  once  was  his  responds  to  naught  but  pain? 
We  blame  our  brother,  yet  it  is  not  he, 
But  our  dead  heart  that  makes  Gethsemane ! 


156 


MOTHERHOOD 

T  SOMETIMES  think  because  at  first  I  shrank, 
*  And  in  my  girlish  heart  rebelled,  that  I 
Should  face  again  the  long  and  weary  months, 
'Twas  just  for  that  as  well  as  other  things 
That  when  he  came  I  could  not  love  enough. 
But  long  before  the  day  my  doubt  had  passed, 
The  child  had  leaped  within  me  and  I  knew 
The  sweet  and  holy  joy  of  sacred  things. 
And  so  my  hour  came,  and,  fierce  and  long, 
I  battled  for  his  life  in  agony, 
A  wheel  of  fire  in  my  shattered  back 
And  all  my  being  crucified  with  pain. 
Then  suddenly,  as  though  by  earthquake  rent, 
The  world  went  black  with  torture,  and  I  knew 
That  my  cry  mingled  with  another's  cry 
So  faint  I  hardly  heard,  and  yet  I  thrilled 
To  know  the  anguish  gone,  because  once  more 
A  man  child  had  been  born  to  this  strange  earth. 

157 


There,  as  I  lay,  exhausted,  I  rejoiced 
That  I  had  known  the  whole,  each  primal  pang 
That  any  squaw  might  feel  beneath  the  bush — 
That  I  had  proved  myself  what  women  were 
Who  brought  the  pioneers  into  the  world, 
The  virile  men  who  conquered  wood  and  plain, 
For  I  had  never  murmured  till  the  last 
Great  wrench  of  nature  brought  my  body's  fruit. 
Perchance  because  of  all  this  poignancy, 
I  loved  him  with  a  love  so  deep  and  strong 
As  though  'twere  born  of  elemental  things; 
But  then,  I  lay  within  the  darkened  room 
Content  to  float  upon  a  seeming  mist, 
So  very  quiet,  almost  in  a  dream — 
The  calm  and  placid  days  slipped  softly  by, 
Those  days  of  sweet  seclusion,  when  the  world 
Seemed  very  far  away,  when  even  love, 
Except  the  love  I  bore  my  little  one, 
Was  quite  a  thing  apart,  though  hovering  near 
And  guarding  me  from  care,  a  loyal  shield 
That  locked  my  chamber  door  to  all  but  peace. 
So  still  I  lay,  till  he  would  come  to  me; 
Then  I  would  hold  him  closely  to  my  breast 
Against  the  sheltered  haven  of  my  heart, 
And  feel  that  God  was  in  His  Heaven  high. 

158 


Sometimes  I  took  him  in  my  happy  arms 

And  scanned  the  little  face  and  touched  the  hair, 

The  fair  soft  hair,  and  looked  into  the  eyes 

That  were  my  father's  in  their  shining  blue — 

One  of  my  father's  race,  ah !  it  was  so — 

For  as  he  grew  to  childhood  I  could  see 

The  very  traits  I  loved,  the  joy  of  life, 

The  gay,  bright  heart,  the  sweet  simplicity, 

The  love  and  courage  and  the  fierce  contempt 

For  one  who  could  be  cruel  to  the  weak — 

And  even  as  he  grew  my  passion  grew, 

For  we  were  one  in  heart  and  very  soul — 

His  spirit  lifted  me,  and  all  my  sky 

Was  filled  with  light  if  he  were  only  near. 

Life  seemed  so  sweet  for  him,  and  so  for  me 

With  every  perfect  thing  that  it  could  bring. 

But  suddenly,  the  awful  summons  came, 
For  he  was  dead,  and  so  my  heart  died  too! 
The  pangs  I  suffered  when  I  gave  him  birth 
Were  only  in  my  weak  and  pliant  flesh, 
But  when  he  died  it  was  my  heart  was  torn, 
My  passionate  heart  that  seemed  a  living  thing, 
That  loved  with  love  that  was  affinity — 
The  one  affinity  that  cannot  fail. 

159 


Just  as  the  world  went  black  when  he  was  born, 

So  blacker  far  it  went  when  he  was  dead, 

For  my  strong  heart  was  shattered  by  the  blow. 

Thus,  though  I  know  that  I  have  many  joys, 

And  though  I  greet  the  beauty  of  the  Spring, 

And  welcome  Summer  with  its  golden  days, 

The  glory  is  departed  from  the  earth 

Because  he  is  not  part  of  this  same  Spring, 

Because  the  Summer  and  its  golden  days 

Can  never  more  be  seen  through  his  dear  eyes. 

And  though  the  Autumn  with  its  rich  red  glow 

Awakens  a  response  within  my  breast, 

I  cannot  laugh  as  once  I  laughed  with  him, 

When  riding  neck  and  neck  across  the  hills 

Into  the  glory  of  the  dying  day ! 

Ah !  no,  the  chill  of  Winter  holds  me  fast, 

For  he  was  the  fair  flower  of  my  youth. 

But  even  with  the  anguish  that  is  mine, 

I  could  not  wish  that  it  should  ever  pass, 

For  it  is  but  the  other  side  of  joy, 

And  I  must  meet  it  as  I  met  the  pangs 

Of  that  fierce  birth  that  brought  me  my  delight  — 

The  essence  of  the  part  that  is  divine, 

The  perfect  joy  of  perfect  motherhood. 


160 


AFTER 

T  HAVE  lived  and  rejoiced  in  the  living, 
*  I  have  loved  and  accepted  the  pain, 
I  have  given  for  joy  of  the  giving 
And  counted  the  gift  as  a  gain — 
Like  music  that  melts  into  laughter, 
And  laughter  that  trembles  to  tears, 
I  have  waked  every  chord — but  hereafter 
How  mute  are  the  years ! 

They  are  dim  with  the  fear  of  forgetting, 

And  numb  with  a  joy  that  is  cold, 

They  are  wan  from  a  sun  that  is  setting, 

And  blank  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 

No  thrill  in  the  rush  of  the  river, 

No  throb  in  the  hush  of  the  seas, 

In  the  wound  of  Grief's  guarding,  no  quiver, 

For  drained  are  Life's  lees! 


161 


FEAR 

OEAST  in  the  jungle,  ready,  crouched  to  spring; 
*-^  The  spawn  of  sorrow,  and  the  price  of  pain; 
Lurking  in  shadow,  dark  and  evil  thing, 
Waiting  to  claim  my  craven  heart  again. 

Grief  slew  my  joy,  and  bore  it  far  away, 
And  left  me  in  its  place  this  barren  blight 
That  turns  the  gold  of  morning  to  the  gray 
And  haunting  terror  of  the  murky  night; 

Fear  that  the  ones  I  love  shall  anguish  too, 

Fear  for  the  heart  red-hot,  the  heart  turned  cold, 

Fear  of  the  grief,  the  blinding  grief  I  knew, 

Fear  of  the  shortening  day,  the  years  grown  old. 

God  of  my  Fathers,  from  thy  throne  above, 
Lean  in  thy  tenderness,  and  draw  me  near, — 
Teach  me,  O  gracious  Lord,  the  perfect  love, — 
The  perfect  love  that  casteth  out  all  fear! 

162 


SERVICE  AND  SACRIFICE 


TO 

THE  MEMORY   OF  MY   BROTHER 
THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

WHOSE   WATCHWORDS   WERE    COURAGE   AND   SERVICE 

WHOSE    LIFE   WAS   A 
TRUMPET   CALL   TO    LOYALTY   TO   AMERICA 

THIS  BOOK 
IS   GRATEFULLY   DEDICATED 


SAGAMORE 

At  Sagamore  the  Chief  lies  low — 
Above  the  hill  in  circled  row 
The  whirring  airplanes  dip  and  fly, 
A  guard  of  honor  from  the  sky ; — 
Eagles  to  guard  the  Eagle.     Woe 
Is  on  the  world.     The  people  go 
With  listless  footstep,  blind  and  slow;— 
For  one  is  dead — who  shall  not  die — 
At  Sagamore. 

Oh  I    Land  he  loved,  at  last  you  know 
The  son  who  served  you  well  below, 
The  prophet  voice,  the  visioned  eye. 
Hold  him  in  ardent  memory, 
For  one  is  gone — who  shall  not  go — 
From  Sagamore! 

January  6, 
1919 


TO    FRANCE 

OCTOBER,  1916 

"\  A  7"E,  who  have  loved  the  France  of  old, 
*  *       The  France  that  gave  us  Lafayette, 
Now  deeper  still  our  poignant  debt, 
And  tenderer  ten  thousandfold. 

Our  youth  has  shed  its  blood  for  you, 
Because  your  valor  wrung  the  heart. 
You,  who  have  borne  so  brave  a  part, 
You  builded  better  than  you  knew. 

If  we  of  alien  race  and  tongue 
Shall  face,  once  more,  the  God  of  War, 
What  you  have  been  and  what  you  are 
Shall  be  the  flame  before  us  flung. — 


167 


Your  gallant  heart  shall  strengthen  ours 
To  reach  unswerving  toward  the  goal, 
Through  you,  perchance,  a  new-born  soul, 
Unrecognized,  within  us  flowers. 

Ah!   France,  who  gave  us  Lafayette 
When  we  were  scarred  as  you  are  now, 
Before  your  wounds  we  humbly  bow, 
And  bless  you  for  our  deeper  debt! 


168 


SERVICE 

APRIL  6,  1917 

TN  terms  of  service,  not  of  sacrifice, 

We  pledge  our  bodies  for  our  souls'  desire, 
Infused  with  flame,  heart-high  with  holy  fire, 
Yet  not  as  martyrs  would  we  pay  the  price. 

Rather  as  lovers,  asking  but  to  give, 

And  giving  only  passion  purified, — 

Craving  one  epitaph — "Behold  here  died 

A  Freeman  who  would  have  his  country  live ! n 


169 


AT   THE    TOMB   OF   LAFAYETTE 

"TAFAYETTE,  we  are  here!" 

Doffed  helmet,  bowed  head 
Greet  you,  the  great  Dead. 

Were  it  weakness  to  shed 
So  impassioned  a  tear? 

Lafayette,  we  are  here ! 

We  are  here,  Lafayette! 

Though  we  waited  so  long, 
We  have  come  to  right  wrong, 

Here  are  arms  lithe  and  strong 
That  would  pay  the  old  debt, — 

We  are  here,  Lafayette! 


170 


Lafayette,  as  we  kneel, 

Can  you  hear  in  your  grave 

That  our  pledge  is  to  save 
Or  to  die — as  the  brave 

Men  of  France  do  reveal 
How  to  die  for  her  weal ! 

Lafayette,  we  are  here ! 

Vive  la  France !     She  shall  live — 
For  her  life  we  would  give 

What  you  gave,  and  retrieve 
The  dear  debt — by  your  bier; — 

Lafayette,  we  are  here! 


171 


SUSPENSE 

BEFORE   THE   AMERICAN   TROOPS    GO 
INTO    ACTION 

MARCH  30,  1918 

A  \  TE  wait  and  hold  our  breath,  for  it  must  come, 
*   *     The  hour  of  anguish  which  shall  strike  for  all : 
When,  like  a  heavy  and  unyielding  pall, 
We  know  what  we  have  sensed  with  pulses  numb. 
The  measured  march  of  Sorrow  strikes  us  dumb. — 
Imprisoned  by  our  dread,  as  by  a  wall, 
Breathless  we  wait,  and  neither  rise  nor  call, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  echo  of  the  drum. 
Oh !  Spring  that  we  have  loved  and  welcomed  oft, 
When  bursting  buds  acclaimed  the  new-born  year, 
We  shudder  at  the  thought  of  what  you  bring, — 
Each  breeze  that  murmurs  softer  and  more  soft 
Hurries  the  breaking  heart,  the  bitter  tear, — 
Death,  the  Intruder,  tramples  down  the  Spring ! 


172 


TO    PEACE,    WITH    VICTORY 

NOVEMBBH   11,    1918 

T  COULD  not  welcome  you,  oh !  longed-for  peace, 

Unless  your  coming  had  been  heralded 
By  victory.     The  legions  who  have  bled 
Had  elsewise  died  in  vain  for  our  release. 

But  now  that  you  come  sternly,  let  me  kneel 
And  pay  my  tribute  to  the  myriad  dead, 
Who  counted  not  the  blood  that  they  have  shed 
Against  the  goal  their  valor  shall  reveal. 

Ah !  what  had  been  the  shame,  had  all  the  stars 
And  stripes  of  our  brave  flag  drooped  still  unfurled, 
When  the  fair  freedom  of  the  weary  world 
Hung  in  the  balance.     Welcome  then  the  scars ! 

Welcome  the  sacrifice !     With  lifted  head 
Our  nation  greets  dear  Peace  as  honor's  right; 
And  ye  the  Brave,  the  Fallen  in  the  fight, 
Had  ye  not  perished,  then  were  honor  dead! 

173 


THANKSGIVING    DAY,     1917 

TET  us  give  thanks,  and  lift  our  ringing  voices, 
*— '  Though  not  for  plenty,  nor  for  paths  of  peace; 
Let  us  rejoice,  as  a  strong  man  rejoices 
To  run  his  race; — nor  pray  for  swift  release: 
We  who  have  doubted,  dumb  with  indecision, 
Nor  turned  our  faltering  footsteps  toward  the  Right, 
We  who  have  heeded  not  the  surer  vision, 
Let  us  give  thanks — for  we  have  seen  the  light ! 

Let  us  give  thanks  that  once  again,  compelling, 
Our  flag  shall  float  for  Freedom  to  the  skies, 
Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  voices  swelling 
Proclaim  our  service  and  our  sacrifice. 
Let  us  give  thanks — an  undivided  nation, 
One  purposed  now,  we  press  toward  the  goal, 
To  Thee,  our  Fathers'  God  and  our  Salvation, 
Let  us  give  thanks — for  we  have  found  our  Soul ! 


174 


THANKSGIVING,    1918 

JET  us  give  thanks,  and  meet  with  head  uplifted 
•*— '  The  pealing  bells  that  ring  for  righteous  peace; 
Now  that  the  coward  souls  like  sand  are  sifted, 
We,  who  are  purged,  can  welcome  our  release. 

Had  we  not  seen  the  light,  our  honor,  lying 
Like  unsheathed  sword,  had  lost  its   dauntless 
edge, — 

Had  we  not  conquered  death  by  our  own  dying, 
We  had  been  false  to  Freedom's  fairest  pledge. 

But  now  we  kneel,  eyes  lifted  in  thanksgiving 
With  peace  triumphant  deep  within  our  heart, 

We,  who  have  failed  nor  fallen  dead,  nor  living, 
Let  us  give  thanks,  for  we  have  borne  our  part ! 


175 


TO   GENERAL    LEONARD   WOOD 

NOVEMBER  11,  1918 

VfOUR  vision  keen,  unerring  when  the  blind, 

Who  could  not  see,  turned,  groping,  from  the 
light, 
Your  sentient  knowledge  of  the  wise  and  right 

Have  won  to-day  the  freedom  of  mankind. 
Honor  to  whom  the  honor  be  assigned! 

Mightier  in  exile  than  the  men  whose  might 
Is  of  the  sword  alone,  and  not  of  sight, 

You  march  beside  the  victor  host  aligned. 
Had  not  your  spirit  soared,  our  ardent  youth 

Had  faltered  leaderless;  their  eager  feet, 
Attuned  to  effort  for  the  valiant  truth 

Through  your  command,  rushed,  swiftly  to  compete 
To  hold  on  high  the  torch  of  Liberty — 

Great-visioned  Soul,  yours  is  the  victory ! 


176 


CHRISTMAS,    1918 

ONCE  more  with  Christmas  Eve  comes  "Peace, 
Good-Will." 

Once  more  the  Christmas  hope  unstifled  springs, 
And  hearts  are  glad  because  it  seems  that  still 
We  hear  the  rustle  of  the  Angels'  wings. 

As,  long  ago,  the  men  who  watched  their  sheep 
Welcomed  the  radiant  messengers  of  light, 

So  we  who  walked  in  darkness,  woke  to  weep, — 
No  longer  dream  of  slaughter  in  the  night. 

Ring  out  oh!  bells  of  Peace,  and  let  your  voice 
Be  the  new  pledge  of  brotherhood  in  truth — 

The  valiant  Dead  would  bid  us  to  rejoice, 

For  this  they  gave  their  ardor  and  their  youth. 

That  all  the  anguish,  all  the  mortal  pain 

Shall  bring  new  vision  to  a  world  once  blind; 

The  booming  guns,  though  silenced,  call  again 
Not  now  to  die,  but  live  for  all  mankind! 
177 


TO    ITALY 

OCTOBER,  1918 

CAIR  land  of  dear  desire, 

• 

A      Where  Beauty  like  a  gleam 

Has  waked  the  hidden  fire 

Of  what  our  souls  would  dream! 

Where  shining  ilex  glistens, 
And  cypress'  sombre  shade 
Above  dim  fountains  listens 
In  some  forgotten  glade. 

Oh !  land  of  dear  desire, 
Thy  beauty  sweeps  again 
My  heart  with  sudden  fire 
And  burns  away  its  pain. 

I  dream  with  Perugino 
On  some  far  Umbrian  hill, 
Or  pray  with  sweet  St.  Francis 
Till  this  world's  fret  is  still. 

178 


Until  my  soul  reposes 
As  once,  unscourged  he  lay, 
Amid  the  thornless  roses 
Until  the  break  of  day. 

Dear  Saint,  who  was  the  brother 
Of  every  living  thing, 
Could  we  to  one  another 
Thy  gracious  message  bring, 

The  world  renewed,  awaking, 
Would   shed  the  shattered,   torn, 
Grim  night  of  its  own  making, 
And  pledge  a  peace  reborn. 

Fair  land  of  dear  desire, 

Thy  beauty  like  a  gleam 

Shall  kindle  and  inspire 

What  all  our  souls  would  dream! 


179 


IN    BED 

WRITTEN  FOR  A  BENEFIT  FOR  THE  "ENFANTS  DE  LA  FRONTIERE,"  1917 

A  A 7HEN  evening  comes 

And  I'm  in  bed 
And  mother  sits  and  sings 
And  holds  my  hand 
And  strokes  my  head, 
I  think  of  all  the  things 
That  I  have  heard — 
Can  they  be  true? — 
That  children  just  like  me 
Are  cold  and  lost  and  hungry  too 
In  lands  across  the  Sea? 

They  say  they  wander  in  their  fright 
All  dumb  with  cold  and  dread; 
And  when  I  think  of  them  at  night 
I  want  to  hide  my  head 
Upon  my  mother's  gentle  arm 
That  holds  me  close  and  still, 
And  seems  to  promise  that  no  harm 
Can  ever  come,  or  ill. 

180 


And  then  I  hear  my  mother's  voice 

So  tender  in  a  prayer, 

"Dear  God,  may  all  the  girls  and  boys 

Who  wander  'Over  there* 

Be  brought  for  kindly  sheltering 

To  those  who  crave  to  give, 

And  they  who  mourn  shall  learn  to  sing 

And  they  who  die  shall  live." 

And  when  the  prayer  is  done  I  sleep 
So  still  without  a  sound, 
And  dream  no  little  child  shall  weep 
And  all  the  lost  are  found! 


181 


SOLDIER  OF  PAIN 
TO    HER 

\  TOT  in  the  trenches,  torn  by  shot  and  shelling, 

Not  on  the  plain, 
Bombed  by  the  foe;    but  calm  and  unrebelling, 

Soldier  of  Pain ! 

Facing  each  day,  head  high  with  gallant  laughter, 

Anguish  supreme; 
What  accolade  in  what  divine  hereafter 

Shall  this  redeem? 

Through  the  long  night  of  racked,  recurrent  waking, 

Till  the  long  day, 

Fraught  with  distress,  brings  but  the  same  heart 
breaking 

Front  for  the  fray. 

In  a  far  land  our  Nation's  patriots,  willing, 

Fought,  and  now  lie, — 
But  you — as  brave — a  harder  fate  fulfilling, 

Dare  not  to  die! 


182 


"DEWEY' 

!  the  gallant  first  of  May— 
When  our  ships  stole  in  the  Bay, 
Under  cover  of  the  darkness, 
Into  deep  Manila  Bay. 
What  cared  they  for  mine  or  shell, 
For  our  Dewey  knew  full  well, 
That  we'd  sink  the  Spanish  vessels, 
With  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

And  amid  the  cannon's  roar — 
Bursting  from  Cavite's  shore, 
Pointing  at  our  daring  flagship, 
As  it  neared  Cavite's  shore, 
Clear,  above  the  deafening  gun, 
From  the  lips  of  everyone, 
Rose  the  hoarse  cry  of  defiance, 
Swelling  ever  more  and  more. 


183 


"Tis  in  memory  of  the  Maine, 
And  our  gallant  sailors  slain, 
Faraway  in  Cuban  waters, 
All  our  gallant  sailors  slain.'* 
Fierce  and  swift  the  deadly  shot, 
For  the  strong  arms  faltered  not, 
We  were  paying  debts  of  honor, 
As  we  made  the  bullets  rain. 

And  the  Stars  and  Stripes  shall  wave, 
Over  many  a  Spanish  grave, 
For  the  harbor  of  Manila 
Now  is  but  a  Spanish  grave. 
And  the  first  of  May  shall  be 
Dewey's  Day  on  land  and  sea, 
Honor  to  our  dauntless  Dewey, 
Honor  to  his  seamen  brave! 

May  1 
1898 


184 


THEODORE    ROOSEVELT 
A    WOMAN    SPEAKS    TO    HIS    SISTER 

I  NEVER  clasped  his  hand, 
*     He  never  knew  my  name, 
And  yet  at  his  command, 
I  followed  like  a  flame. 

I  pressed  amid  the  crowd 
To  touch  his  garment's  hem, 

As  one  of  old  once  touched 
The  Man  of  Bethlehem. 

I  was  of  those  who  toil, 

Whose  bread  is  wet  with  tears, 

A  daughter  of  the  soil, 

And  bent,  though  not  with  years. 


185 


His  words  would  lift  the  veil 
That  blurred  my  tired  eyes, 

They  seemed  to  strengthen  me 
To  serve  and  sacrifice. 

And  all  the  values  lost, 

When  life  was  cold  and  grim, 
Were  clear  and  true  again 

Interpreted  by  him. 

Our  leader  and  our  friend, 
He  knew  what  we  must  bear, 

And  to  the  gallant  end 
He  bade  us  do  and  dare. 

Clad  in  an  armored  truth 
And  by  high  purpose  shod, 

He  gave  us  back  our  youth, 
Our  country,  and  our  God! 


186 


TO    MY    BROTHER 

I  LOVED  you  for  your  loving  ways, 
*  The  ways  that  many  did  not  know; 
Although  my  heart  would  beat  and  glow 
When  Nations  crowned  you  with  their  bays. 

I  loved  you  for  the  tender  hand 

That  held  my  own  so  close  and  warm, 

I  loved  you  for  the  winning  charm 

That  brought  gay  sunshine  to  the  land. 

I  loved  you  for  the  heart  that  knew 

The  need  of  every  little  child; 
I  loved  you  when  you  turned  and  smiled, — 

It  was  as  though  a  fresh  wind  blew. 

I  loved  you  for  your  loving  ways, 

The  look  that  leaped  to  meet  my  eye, 

The  ever-ready  sympathy, 

The  generous  ardor  of  your  praise. 


187 


I  loved  you  for  the  buoyant  fun 
That  made  perpetual  holiday 

For  all  who  ever  crossed  your  way, 
The  highest  or  the  humblest  one. 

I  loved  you  for  the  radiant  zest, 

The  thrill  and  glamour  that  you  gave 

To  each  glad  hour  that  we  could  save 
And  garner  from  Time's  grim  behest. 

I  loved  you  for  your  loving  ways, — 
And  just  because  I  loved  them  so, 

And  now  have  lost  them, — thus  I  know 
I  must  go  softly  all  my  days! 


188 


THE    A.    E.    F. 

To    T.    R. 

FROM  "THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES" 

ONE  is  the  joy, — gone  is  the  thrill  of  returning, 
We  who  had  longed  to  share  with  you  all 

our  laurels, 

To  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  our  great  companion; — 
Hushed  is  rejoicing ! 

Never  again  to  see  the  light  from  your  window, 
Shining  across  the  land  that  you  loved  and  in 
spired, — 

"Put  out  the  light,"  you  said,  and  slept;  but  not 
dreaming 

The  darkness  for  others. 

You,  our  leader,  but  more,  our  greatest  companion — 
Near  enough  for  the  spur  of  your  voice  and  your 

hand  grip, 

Ever  ready  to  share,  but  sharing,  still  leading 
Upward  and  onward. 
189 


Listen !     This  is  our  pledge,  to  fare  and  to  follow, 
Follow  the  trail  you  blazed,  without  shadow  of 

turning, — 

We,  who  have  learned  of  you,  shall  not  be  found 
wanting 

Here  or  hereafter! 


190 


VALIANT    FOR    TRUTH 

"  And  so  Valiant  for  Truth  passed  over,  and  all  the  trumpets  sounded 
for  him  on  the  other  side" 

WALIANT  for  Truth  has  gone— Alas  !  that  he  has 

left  us, 

Valiant  for  Truth,  the  leader  that  we  love, 
Where  shall  we  find  his  like?     Grim  death,  thou 

has  bereft  us 
Of  that  great  force  that  lifted  us  above. 

Valiant  for  Truth,  thy  voice  rang  strong,  and  clear, 

and  loudly, 

We  had  not  borne  to  have  its  accents  fail; 
Nor  would  we  choose,  oh  !  Knight,  that  thou  shouldst 

go  less  proudly 
Ardent  and  young,  upon  the  last,  long  trail. 

What  though  we  stumble  blindly  over  ways  that 

darken, 

We  are  not  worthy  if  we  do  not  fare 
191 


Forth  to  the  West,  where  still  thy  voice  calls  us  to 

hearken — 
Up  to  the  heights,  and  we  shall  meet  thee  there. 

"Valiant  for  Truth  has  come,"  thus  all  the  trumpets 

sounded, 

"Valiant  for  Truth  who  faltered  not,  nor  fell; 
Fearless  he  rode  the  trail,  the  last  long  trail  un 
bounded, 
Rode  to  the  final  goal,  where  all  is  well ! " 


192 


URIEL 
II    ESDRAS    IV 

THEN  Uriel  spake, — the  great  angel,  the  angel  of 
God- 
"  Would  ye  know  then  the  secrets  of  Yaveh,  the 

rule  of  his  rod? 
So,  weigh  me  the  weight  of  the  fire,  the  blast  of  the 

wind 
That  has  left  in  the  wake  of  the  tempest  no  whisper 

behind; 
Or  call  me  the  day  that  has  vanished, — one  hour 

of  the  day, — 
And  I  will  interpret  Jehovah,  His  will  and  His  way  !" 

And  I  answered,  "Oh!  Angel  of  Yaveh,  ye  know 

and  I  know 
That  the  questions  ye  ask  are  a  riddle.     The  gleam 

and  the  glow 
Of  the  flash  of  the  fire  are  fitful,  and  cannot  be 

weighed, — 


193 


And  the  whirl  of  the  cyclone  unmeasured  can  never 

be  stayed, 
And  the  day  that  is  past — could  we  call  it — then 

Heaven  would  be  here, 
But,  perchance,  we  could  walk,  even  blindly,  were 

the  pathway  more  clear!" 

Then  Uriel  answered,  "I  ask  ye  of  things  ye  have 

known. 
Ye  have  sat  at  the  warmth  of  the  fire;  the  breeze 

that  has  blown 
Has  cooled  ye  when  faint  with  the  summer's  long 

sweep  of  the  sun, 
And  the  day  that  is  past,  ye  have  lived  it,  although 

it  is  done. 
If  ye  cannot  discern,  though  half  hidden,  the  things 

ye  have  seen, — 
Would  ye  look  on  the  veiled  face  of  Yaveh,  His 

might  and  His  mien?" 

And  I  answered  God's   angel  in  sorrow,    "'Twere 

better  by  far 
That  we  ne'er  had  been  born  to  the  bitter,  blind 

things  that  we  are; 


194 


To  suffer,  and  not  to  know  wherefore,  to  be  but 

the  sport 
Of  Jehovah  who  reads  not  the  riddle  of  all  He  has 

wrought." 

Then,  gently,  the  angel  of  Yaveh  made  answer  to 

me — 
"When  the  flame  of  the  fire  has  vanished,  oh !  what 

do  ye  see, 
The  smoke  that  is  left?     Yea,  the  ashes,  but  fire 

and  flame 
Are  greater  than  smoke  or  than  ashes.     The  clouds 

are  the  same — 
They  pass  to  the  earth  in  the  shower,  the  drops 

shall  remain, 
But  greater  than  drops  and  unending  the  rush  of 

the  rain. 
What  has  been  is  but  drops  and  but  ashes  to  the 

more  still  to  be, 
For   the   ways   of   Jehovah   are   wondrous.     Wait, 

mortal,  and  see!" 


195 


THE  LAST  LEAF  IN  SPRING 


am  I  here? 

I,  who  belonged  to  that  dread  season  drear, 
When,  wet  and  cold, 

November  rains  did  change  to  formless  mould 
My  comrades,  and  did  sweep 
Them  all  to  their  last  sleep; 
But  I— 

I  was  passed  by. 

Even  the  storm  that  wild  Autumnal  night, 
When  winds,  tornado-like,  rushed  by  in  might, 
And  carried  my  companions  on  their  breast,  — 
Left  me  at  rest. 

I  had  been  happier  far  with  them  to  fly 
Fiercely  dissolved,  against  an  avenging  sky  — 
Riding  Death's  ride  upon  the  sounding  gale,  — 
Than,  wan  and  pale, 
Against  this  branch  to  cling, 
And  wait  a  new-born  Spring! 


196 


I  have  no  place 

Where  buds  do  bloom  apace. 

One  near  me  now 

Burst  into  adolescence, 

How,  ah !  how  ? 

Her  fragrant  scents 

With  youth's  impertinence 

Importune  me  to  know  why  I  still  hold 

The  branch,  with  tendrils  cold — 

"Why,"  they  would  ask  of  me,  "have  you  survived? 

Your  brothers  were  short-lived 

And  went  their  way, 

Why  did  you  stay?" 

And  I 

Can  but  reply, 

A  monk  at  heart, 

As  though  apart,  unshrived, 

"I  know  not — nay — I  only  know 

I  would  not  have  it  so." 

And  yet,  and  yet 

Perchance  'tis  not  so  sad 

To  see  the  earth  once  more,  reborn  and  glad. — 

I  cannot  feel  it — not  one  hollow  vein 


197 


Can  nature's  sap  retain; 

But  I  can  see 

The  mystery  of  bloom,  on  bud  and  tree, 

Can  hear  new  leaves 

Murmur  within  their  shoots  of  days  to  come, 

Can  almost  hear  the  hum 

Of  some  precocious  and  marauding  bee 

Around  the  roots 

Of  flowers  it  may  not  see. — 

And  even  I — 

A  skeleton  indeed  at  such  a  feast, 

For  one  brief  moment 

From  my  fate  released, 

Can  chant  my  threnody — 

Can  lift  my  voice 

And  in  the  thought  rejoice, 

As  one  who,  living  still,  though  out  of  time, 

Has  heard  again  the  rhythm  and  the  rhyme 

Of  Earth's  renewal.     The  sublime 

Recurrence  of  the  beauty  of  the  days 

Born  but  to  praise, 

When,  long  and  sweet  and  slow, 

The  hours  linger  and  the  flowers  grow. 


198 


Ah  me!    Ah  me! 

I  strive  to  think 

I  am  content  to  see, 

And  not  to  feel. — 

It  is  not  true, 

I  long  to  revel  in  the  Heaven's  blue, 

I  long  to  dance 

And  waver  gayly  in  the  wooing  breeze 

Balanced  at  ease, 

Sure  of  my  strength  to  brave  its  harmonies 

With  no  mischance. 

I  long  for  mad 

Sweet  ecstasy,  when  all  the  world  is  glad — 

I  strain  to  thrill 

When  robins  trill 

The  song  of  passion  to  their  waiting  mate; 

But  no,  my  fate 

Is  otherwise. 

Come  Wind,  arise — 

Blow,  feigning  Autumn, 

Blow,  as  though  the  world 

In  cold  November's  fog  and  mist  were  furled,- 

Blow  fiercely — till  upon  the  new  grass  hurled, 


199 


I  lie,  a  shattered  thing 

That  none  regret. 

I  had  no  right 

To  that  stupendous  sight — 

The  promise  and  the  pageant  of  the  Spring. 

And  yet — !  and  yet — ! 

Hurried  to  Earth  at  last 

Upon  the  April  blast 

I  would  not  quite  forget! 


200 


FLIGHT 

T  HAVE  followed  the  flush  of  the  morn 

*   To  the  heart  of  the  sun. 

Aurora,  the  spirit  of  Dawn, 

Ere  the  day  has  begun, 

Has  winnowed  the  way  of  the  wind 

For  the  beat  of  my  wings, 

Above  the  dim  haunts  of  mankind 

To  the  essence  of  things. 

Apollo  awaits  me  afar 

With  his  horses  in-reined, 

As  I  float  with  the  faint  morning  star 

Where  the  ether  is  stained. 

By  the  crimson  that  flares  as  he  sweeps 

Down  the  fire-touched  mist, 

As  his  chariot  wavers  and  leaps 

From  the  heights  amethyst. 


201 


I  swing  in  the  nebulous  space 

Till  I  welcome  the  shroud 

Of  night; — and  the  stars  in  their  race 

Are  singing  aloud, 

They  chant  of  the  past, — of  the  days 

When  the  song  of  the  spheres, 

The  rhythm  of  prayer  and  of  praise 

Knew  no  mortal  ears. 

Orion  has  thrown  me  his  belt 

As  a  life-line  of  light, 

The  Pleiades  shimmer  and  melt 

As  a  lure  to  my  sight, — 

Arcturus  points  up  to  the  crown, 

To  the  crown  I  have  won — 

I  am  morning  and  night,  I  have  mown 

My  path  to  the  sun. 

Must  I  fall  from  the  kingdom  of  air 
To  the  bondage  of  earth, 
Man  calls  me  his  shackles  to  bear, 
For  'twas  he  gave  me  birth. 


202 


His  vision  has  buoyed  my  flight, 
Has  given  me  grace 
To  conquer  the  dawn  and  the  night, 
And  the  infinite  space. 

Man-made,  I  have  pierced  the  wide  blue 

Of  the  heavens  on  high, 

Nor  Hermes,  winged  God,  as  he  flew 

Were  freer  than  I — 

Man-made,  as  a  God,  lo !  I  dare 

Olympus  to  span — 

I  am  kin  to  the  uttermost  air, 

Yet  the  daughter  of  Man ! 


203 


FROM  A  MOTOR  AT  MIDNIGHT 

!  the  strange  wild  thrill  of  a  motor  flight 
In  the  still,  clear  cold  of  an  Autumn  night, 
When  led  by  the  lure  of  the  straight  white  road 
The  car  leaps  loose  to  the  engine's  goad, 
And  the  front  lamps  shine  down  the  distant  track 
And  the  small  red  point  at  the  motor's  back 
Sends  a  crimson  glow  on  the  quick-left  trail 
Like  Antares'  eye  in  the  scorpion's  tail. — 
How  the  brain  responds  to  the  pulsing  throb, 
And  the  soul  replies  to  the  wind's  faint  sob 
As  it  meets  the  branch  for  a  cool  embrace 
Of  the  Autumn  trees  in  their  leafless  lace. 
I  look  straight  up  in  the  wide-lit  skies 
And  I  know  that  the  vaulted  depth  replies, 
For  it  bids  me  join  in  the  planets'  race 
While  it  offers  the  prize  of  a  stellar  place — 
Till  I  dream  that  Auriga,  charioteer, 
Is  at  the  wheel,  and  the  whirling  sphere 


Answers  my  dream  as  I  meet  the  stars. — 

Orion's  belt,  with  its  golden  bars, 

Is  in  my  grasp;  and  a  hunting-song 

Echoes  the  meadow  road  along, 

Borne  on  the  breath  of  the  midnight  breeze 

Chanted  by  distant  Pleiades. — 

The  hill  sweeps  low  as  we  skirt  the  stream 

Where,  upside  down,  with  a  laughing  gleam 

The  dipper  flings  from  the  milky  way 

A  frothing  spoonful  of  yellow  spray. — 

And  air  and  water,  and  earth  and  sky 

Call  out  "Good  Speed"  to  us  rushing  by — 

We  are  one  with  the  spaces,  and  one  with  the  dark, 

Alive  as  the  flash  of  electric  spark, 

In  tune  with  nature,  at  one  with  man, 

Who  has  made  us  part  of  the  cosmic  plan — 

By  the  child  of  his  brain,  which  he  curbs  and  reins, 

Or  hurls  headlong  through  the  midnight  plains — 

Oh !  the  strange,  wild  thrill  of  a  motor  flight 

In  the  still,  clear  cold  of  an  Autumn  night! 


205 


THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS 
NOWHERE 

HTHERE'S  a  path  that  leads  to  Nowhere 

*     In  a  meadow  that  I  know, 
Where  an  inland  island  rises 

And  the  stream  is  still  and  slow; 
There  it  wanders  under  willows, 

And  beneath  the  silver  green 
Of  the  birches'  silent  shadows 

Where  the  early  violets  lean. 

Other  pathways  lead  to  Somewhere, 

But  the  one  I  love  so  well 
Has  no  end  and  no  beginning — 

Just  the  beauty  of  the  dell, 
Just  the  wind-flowers  and  the  lilies 

Yellow-striped  as  adder's  tongue, 
Seem  to  satisfy  my  pathway 

As  it  winds  their  scents  among. 


206 


There  I  go  to  meet  the  Springtime, 

When  the  meadow  is  aglow, 
Marigolds  amid  the  marshes, — 

And  the  stream  is  still  and  slow. 
There  I  find  my  fair  oasis, 

And  with  care-free  feet  I  tread 
For  the  pathway  leads  to  Nowhere, 

And  the  blue  is  overhead ! 

All  the  ways  that  lead  to  Somewhere 

Echo  with  the  hurrying  feet 
Of  the  Struggling  and  the  Striving, 

But  the  way  I  find  so  sweet 
Bids  me  dream  and  bids  me  linger, 

Joy  and  Beauty  are  its  goal,— 
On  the  path  that  leads  to  Nowhere 

I  have  sometimes  found  my  soul ! 


207 


"IF  I   COULD   HOLD   MY  GRIEF" 

TF  I  could  hold  my  grief  in  calm  control, 

*     And  look  its  blinding  terror  in  the  face; 

If  I  could  welcome  it  to  its  own  place 

Deep  in  my  heart;  if  I  could  sweep  the  whole 

Of  this  fierce  pain,  that  seems  to  drown  my  soul, 

Into  my  being  like  a  firm  embrace, 

And  let  it  with  my  life's  stream  interlace, — 

Then  Grief  and  I,  perchance,  might  win  the  Goal. 

But  if  I  shrink,  with  dim,  averted  eyes, 

Craving  to  hurry  through  the  restless  days, 

Seeking  escape, — a  wounded  creature,  blind, — 

Then  all  my  deeper  self,  that  hidden  lies, 

In  vain  shall  strive  to  lead  me  in  the  ways 

That  Grief  would  teach  my  lagging  feet  to  find. 


208 


THE    WOMAN    SPEAKS 

I\  A  Y  would-be  Lover,  wait — believe  me,  this 

*  *  *  Perchance  shall  prove,  of  all,  the  fairest  hour; 

When  I  have  felt  your  arms'  compelling  power, 

When  I  have  known  the  rapture  of  your  kiss, 

Life  may  not  hold  again  such  tranquil  bliss — 

Eternal  forfeit!     Friendship's  perfect  flower 

Withers  before  the  Sun-God's  golden  dower, 

Will  you  not  grant  me,  now,  an  armistice? 

Let  us  call  loyal  truce  that  we  may  steep 

The  mind  and  heart  and  soul  in  this  rich  sense 

Of  full  communion. — Faith,  serene  and  deep, 

Shall  hold  our  passion  to  an  innocence 

Of  spirit  union —    Wait, — and  let  Love  sleep 

Before  the  blinding  harvest  he  shall  reap. 


209 


"WE    WHO    HAVE    LOVED" 

A  \  7E  who  have  loved,  alas !  may  not  be  friends, 
*  ^     Too  faint,  or  yet  too  fierce,  the  stifled  fire, — 
A  random  spark — and  lo !  our  dead  desire 
Leaps  into  flame,  as  though  to  make  amends 
For  chill,  blank  days,  and  with  strange  fury  rends 
The  dying  embers  of  Love's  funeral  pyre. 
Electric,  charged  anew,  the  living  wire 
A  burning  message  through  our  torpor  sends. 
Could  we  but  pledge,  with  loyal  hearts  and  eyes, 
A  friendship  worthy  of  the  fair,  full  past, 
Now  mutilate,  and  lost  beyond  recall, 
Then  might  a  Phoenix  from  its  ashes  rise 
Fit  for  a  soul-flight;  but  we  find,  aghast, 
Love  must  be  nothing  if  not  all  in  all! 


210 


LIFE    HURT    ME 

IIFE  hurt  me— 

*— '  But  I  welcomed  even  pain — 

So  keen  I  was  the  full  deep  cup  to  drain, 

I  courted  all  the  clamor  and  the  strife, 

The  grief,  the  joy — I  was  in  love  with  life. 

Death  hurt  me — 

But  I  wept  and  bowed  my  head 

To  learn  the  lesson  Christ  interpreted. 

With  dear  Love's  help  I  raised  my  anguished  eyes 

And  thought  I  read  the  message  of  the  skies. 

And  then  Love  hurt  me — 

And  I  lost  the  whole 

Of  faith  and  peace.     "Ah!"  cried  my  struggling 

soul, 

"If  Love  can  fail  its  own,  why  live?"  it  said — 
And  lo !  still-born,  I  found  my  soul  was  dead ! 


211 


THE    OLD    HOUSE 

'T'HE  old  House  on  the  Hill 
*     Has  harbored  many  a  fire,- 
Keen  heart  and  young  desire, — 
All  silent  now  and  still ! 

The  old  House  on  the  Hill 
Behind  its  sheltering  walls 
Held  Joy  that  Hope  recalls 
And  Love  that  hearts  fulfil. 

The  old  House  on  the  Hill 
Surmounts  the  flying  years, 
Fit  frame  for  smiles,  or  tears, 
Strong  shield  for  good  or  ill. 

The  old  House  on  the  Hill 
Still  harbors  many  a  fire, — 
New  lives,  but  old  desire — 
Soon  silent,  too,  and  still ! 


LE    GRAND    DISPARU 

the  far  hill,  where  all  your  people  love  you 

Silent  you  lie, 
'Neath  the  Scotch  cross  that  rises  there  above  you 
Under  the  sky. 

Stanch  as  its  stone,  the  hand  you  held  out  gladly, 

To  meet  the  need 
Of  those  who  turned  to  you;  who  now  greet  sadly 

What  was  decreed. 

Deep  in  your  heart's  far  innermost  recesses, 

You  held  your  Own, — 
Scorning  all  lighter  loves  and  their  caresses — 

You  gave  alone 

All  that  you  had — and  it  was  worth  the  keeping — 

To  those  who  bore 
Your  honored  name.    Ah !  may  you  now  be  reaping 

That  love — and  more! 


213 


THE     PLUS     SIGN 

CHRIST    SPEAKS  FROM    A    CRUCIFIX 
IN    BRITTANY 

/\ /I  Y  people,  oh  !    my  people,  pass  not  by, 

*  *  *       Or  passing,  turn  again  and  look,  for  lo ! 

The  shadow  of  my  rough  hewn  cross  and  me 

Hangs  in  the  waning  West,  a  great  Plus  Sign, 
And  bids  you  add  us,  add  my  cross  and  me, 

To  every  joy  and  every  pain  of  yours. 
My  arms  outstretched,  my  weary  head  and  feet 

Nailed  to  the  rugged  cross  are  like  the  sign 
The  little  children  make  to  show  that  more, 

And  even  more  shall  still  be  added  to 
The  teacher's  task  until  it  all  is  done: — 

And  so,  my  people,  look,  and  looking,  learn — 
For  I  would  bid  you  add  my  cross  and  me 

To  make  the  fulness  of  the  final  sum, — 
The  great  Plus  Sign  of  pain  and  penitence, — 

My  cross  and  I  are  penitence  and  pain, 
The  great  Plus  Sign  of  joy  and  sacrifice, — 


214 


My  cross  and  I  are  sacrifice  and  joy, 
The  great  Plus  Sign  of  service  and  of  love, — 

For  we  are  service,  and,  above  all,  love. 
My  cross  and  I  are  love  in  everything, 

For  love  is  pain,  and  love  is  penitence, 
And  love  is  service,  joy  and  sacrifice. 

Then  pass  not  by,  my  people,  turn  and  look; 
The  great  Plus  Sign  is  fading  in  the  West 

Above  a  weary  and  a  waiting  world. 
Before  the  shadow  of  my  crucifix 

Is  lost  in  murky  mist  of  setting  sun, 
Take  it,  and  add  it  unto  every  day's 

Appointed  task,  and  let  the  great  Plus  Sign 
Enrich  your  spirit  with  its  priceless  boon 

Of  pain  and  joy  and  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  sum  of  all  that  means  my  cross  and  me. 

My  people,  oh !  my  people,  turn  and  look, 
The  great  Plus  Sign  is  waning  in  the  West. 


215 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN 


LINES    TO    A    FRIEND    ON 

PARTING   AFTER    SIX 

WEEKS    IN    INDIA 


fellow-traveller,  pleasant  Friend, 
'Tis  sad  we  near  our  journey's  end, 
And  now  the  "parting  of  the  ways" 
Hangs  like  a  pall  upon  our  days  — 
An  "Indian  Summer"  we  have  spent 
With  which  the  winter  weeks  have  blent 
Until  we  really  hardly  knew 
Which  season  'twas;  for  skies  so  blue 
Have  crowned  so  many  charming  hours 
It  surely  was  the  "time  of  flowers." 
Please  don't  forget  your  comrade  when 
The  busy  world  shall  claim  you,  then 
A  special  loyalty  'twould  be 
To  give  a  wandering  thought  to  me,  — 
A  train  of  thought  just  send  my  way 
As  long  as  up  to  Mandalay  ! 
219 


Remember  Ahmedabad's  procession 
Where  we  were  seized  by  an  obsession 
For  Hindu  weddings;  wreathed  in  flowers 
We  whiled  away  the  twilight  hours — 
And  Udaipur !  ah !  fairy  palace, 
A  "wonderland"  where  many  an  "Alice" 
Might  lose  her  way  in  happy  dreaming, 
And  soon  forget  to  be,  in  seeming ! 
Oh !  silent  cranes  that  fly  to  rest 
Above  the  water's  placid  breast, 
And  light  that  flushes  as  it  closes 
And  turns  the  sky  to  ash  of  roses, — 
Full  long,  in  memory's  amber  pressed, 
Will  dwell  that  scene  I  love  the  best. 
Then  Chitore's  towers  of  Victory 
Against  a  dark  and  murky  sky, 
They  dominate  the  long-dead  past, 
And  teach  us  Beauty's  worth  at  last. 
From  Delhi  and  from  Agra,  too, 
We  learn  that  Art  and  Love  are  true; 
We  prayed  before  the  Taj  Mahal 
That  stands  a  living  seneschal, 
To  guard  a  love  that  cannot  die 
For  love  outlives  all  history. 
And  once  again  our  souls  replied 
220 


When  Sunrise  on  its  crimson  tide 
Swept  over  Kinchin junga's  height 
And  bade  the  day  destroy  the  night ! 

It  seems  to  me  when  we  respond 
To  sights  like  these,  a  subtle  bond 
Is  forged, — and  never  heart  from  heart 
Can  after  such  a  union  part — 
And  so  though  oceans  roll  between 
We're  ever  linked  in  what  has  been — 
"Es  ist  so  schon  gewesen,"  Friend, 
That  such  a  tie  can  never  end! 


THE    FUTURE    OF    CHIVALRY 

LINES  READ   AT   A   DEBATE 

WHAT  shall  become  of  Chivalry? 
The  very  word  spells  Arcady — 
And  visions  o'er  my  fancy  play 
Of  those  brave  knights  of  yesterday ! 
Launcelot  and  Bors  and  young  Gawaine 
Go  tilting  through  the  woods  again, 
The  shadowy  woods  where  "lutes  were  strung 
And  love-knots  from  the  branches  hung;" 
Where  lovely  maiden  in  distress, 
Soft  shielded  by  her  loveliness 
Had  but  to  call  to  any  swain 
To  rescue  her  from  any  pain. 
The  modern  Launcelot,  half  a  knight, 
Perchance  might  leave  her  to  her  plight. 
While  modern  Bors  is  spelled  with  "e," 
There  were  no  bores  in  Arcady! 
And  modern  Gawaine,  worst  of  all, — 
222 


Is  only  summoned  when  things  pall, 
And  then,  alas !  for  him — poor  swain — 
His  name — dismembered — spells  but  gain  ! 
And  so,  alack-a-day  !    Ah,  me ! 
What  shall  become  of  Chivalry? 

Fair  Woman,  we  must  turn  to  you — 
(In  any  stress  we  always  do) 
The  future  of  this  gracious  art, 
Lies  only  in  your  subtle  heart, 
And  would  you  not  confess  it  lost, 
Just  pause  awhile  and  count  the  cost. 
Through  you  alone  it  must  survive, 
Man  cannot  keep  this  hope  alive — 
Dear  Chivalry,  a  beggar,  prays 
That  you  should  save  him  from  disgrace. 
That  you  should  in  his  cause  enlist, 
Though  Suffragette,  or  Suffragist. — 
Forget  there  is  a  Bernard  Shaw — 
Or  "Self-expression" — new-made  law — 
Forget  Eugenics,  put  aside 
The  many  modern  fads  allied, 
"Sex  problems"  of  biology, 
223 


And  all  the  strange  doxology 
That  rings  with  every  ill  and  ism 
That  color  Life's  illusive  prism. 
If  you  would  keep  your  old-time  place 
Call  back  the  half-forgotten  grace 
That  haloed  love,  and  hallowed  life, 
And  made  the  game  seem  worth  the  strife — 
And  put  aside  the  fallacy 
That  one  can  be  one's  own  "per  se. " 
One's  life  can  never  be  one's  own, 
Too  strong  the  grasp,  too  deep  the  groan 
Of  other  lives  that  grip  the  soul 
And  stand  between  us  and  our  goal; 
For  life  is  like  a  giant  tree 
That  stretches  up  right  valiantly, 
But  every  branch  must  brush  another, 
And  every  tendril  bind  a  brother ! 
So,  would  you  keep  fair  Chivalry, 
Don't  crush  it  by  your  "right  to  be 
Just  your  own  self" — Put  "Self-expression" 
Away  with  "Cubes"  and  "Post-impression." 
Give  heart,  and  soul,  and  love  a  chance, 
And  happiness,  with  song  and  dance 
224 


And  praise  and  prayer  and  gracious  things, 

That  lift  us  from  the  earth  on  wings. 

Oh,  Woman,  give  us  back  our  right 

To  simple  things  of  deep  delight. 

Just  be  a  woman,  if  you  can, 

And  Chivalry  '11  come  back  to  man! 


225 


TO    DOROTHY    D. 

ON  HER  FIRST  BIRTHDAY,  JUNE  30,  1917 

'T'HIS  is  to  little  Dorothy  D. 

Granddaughter  mine  so  sweet  is  she. 
Long  ago  a  poet  knew 
A  dear  little  girl  called  Dorothy  Q.; 
But  I  am  convinced  she  could  not  be 
Any  sweeter  than  Dorothy  D. 

Dorothy  Douglas,  may  you  grow 
Into  the  dearest  girl  I  know: 
May  you  be  loyal,  frank  and  true, 
Just  as  your  mother  is;  may  you 
Loving,  joyous,  and  honest  be, 
Like  your  father,  my  Dorothy  D. 


Welcome  into  the  great,  strange  world, 
Now  where  the  dogs  of  war  have  hurled 
Bitter  cries  that  have  stunned  our  ears, — 
Into  this  world  where  no  one  hears 
Echoes  of  that  sweet  peace  we  knew. 
May  your  mother  have  peace  through  you- 

Peace  of  the  heart  that  love  shall  bring, 

Love,  that  conquers  the  bitter  sting 

Of  grief  or  failure  or  suffering. 

Ah !  my  Dorothy,  Dorothy  D., 

Little  bundle  of  joy  to  be, 

We  who  are  grateful  thank  you,  dear, 

For  coming  to  bring  us  love  and  cheer. 


227 


VERSES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  OFFICIAL  BENEFIT  FOR  THE  RELIEF 
OF  BELGIAN  WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN,  DECEMBER  8,  1914, 
STRAND  THEATRE,  NEW  YORK,  TO  INTRODUCE  THE  DIS 
TINGUISHED  ACTORS  AND  ACTRESSES  WHO  GAVE  THEIR 
SERVICES 

READ   BY 

COMEDY  AND  TRAGEDY 


MISS    SYBIL    CARLISLE 

At  Comedy 

I  AM  the  Comic  Muse, 

Soft  as  the  summer  rain, 
Come  the  children  I  bear 
Out  of  the  breath  of  my  brain; 
Love, — and  Laughter  that  lifts, 
Joy  with  the  lilt  of  a  song, 
Beauty  that's  born  of  praise, 
And  Faith  that  has  righted  wrong. 
I  am  the  heart  of  a  child, 
I  am  the  trust  of  a  maid, 
Spirit  and  passion  of  man, 
Love  that  is  unbetrayed; 
I  am  the  Muse  that  smiles, 
Lo !  and  gladness  is  rife, 
Comedy,  I  am  called, 
I  am  the  mirror  of  Life. 


230 


MR.    WALTER    HAMPDEN 

As  Tragedy 

I  am  the  Tragic  Muse; 
Born  of  the  web  of  my  brain, 
Lo !  my  children  shall  pass, 
Poverty,  Pathos,  and  Pain; 
Labor, — and  Love  forsworn, 
Each  in  their  turn  I  name. 
Jealousy,  evil  born 
Sorrow,  and  Sin  and  Shame. 
I  am  the  World's  despair, 
I  am  the  heart's  despite, 
Woven  of  me  is  fear, 
Shadow  of  mine  is  night; 
I  am  the  Muse  that  weeps, 
Out  of  my  grief  is  Strife, 
Tragedy,  I  am  called, 
I  am  the  mirror  of  Life! 


231 


MISS    EDITH    WYNNE    MATTHISON 

As  "Everyman" 

Could  "Everyman"  and  every  woman  too, 
But  hear  your  voice  as  we  were  wont  to  do, 
In  deep  rich  tones  invoking  prayer  or  praise, 
Then  Every  Man  were  better  all  his  days. 


MISS    VIOLA    ALLEN 

As  Hermione,  in  "A  Winter's  Tale" 

Heraiione,  thine  was  a  "Winter's  Tale," 

Chill  winds  of  foul  suspicion  did  prevail; 

Thou,  ever  blameless, 

Overborne  by  blame, 

Thou,  never  shameless, 

Crucified  by  shame. 

Hermione,  we  weep  thy  hapless  fate, 

So  swiftly  sentenced, 

Justified  so  late! 


232 


MR.    HOLBROOK    BLINN 

As  Jack  Marbury,  in  "Salomy  Jane" 

Have  you  heard  of  Jack  Marbury,  he  from  the  West  ? 

He's  a  terror  at  cards — 

But  his  heart  is  the  best. 

Oh !  the  maids  he  caressed, 

And  the  sins  he  confessed. 

But  he's  white  just  the  same 

For  he'll  take  all  the  blame, — 

Have  you  heard  of  Jack  Marbury.  he  from  the  West  ? 


MRS.    PATRICK    CAMPBELL 

As  Melisande,  in  "Petteas  and  Melisande" 

Creator  by  your  rare  impersonation 
Of  Melisande,  a  Master's  fine  creation, 
At  your  seductive  charm,  we  cry  again, 
"May  God  have  pity  on  the  hearts  of  men." 


233 


MISS    ETHEL    BARRYMORE 

As  Mme.  Trentoni,  in  "Captain  Jinks" 

Our  Ethel  Barrymore, 

Queen  of  Queens 

In  Captain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Marines, 

Has  made  us  thrill  as  she  laughs  and  leans, 

To  the  Captain  in  the  army. 

For  she  is  a  Siren  through  and  through, 

And  she  calls  to  me  and  she  calls  to  you, 

That  is  the  way  that  Sirens  do, 

To  the  Captains  in  Life's  Army. 


234 


MR.    WILLIAM    H.    CRANE 

As  "David  Harum" 

Dear  David  Harum,  your  quaint  wisdom  comes 
Fresh  from  the  land  we  love  to  call  our  own. 
It  is  the  bird  that  sings,  the  bee  that  hums, 
The  wind  that  blows  across  a  grove  o'ergrown; 
In  him  who  voices  you,  you  live  again, 
We  know  not  which  is  Harum, — 
Which  is  Crane! 


MISS    FRANCES    STARR 

As  Juanita,  in  "  The  Rose  of  the  Rancho" 

Rose  of  the  Rancho, 
Flower-like  you  are, 
A  rose  indeed, 
But — even  more,  a  Starr! 


235 


MLLE.    DORZIAT 

As  Countess  Marina,  in  "  The  Hawk" 

There  is  a  land  of  language  exquisite, 
Where  every  word  may  to  the  gesture  fit, 
A  tongue  that's  fashioned  for  divine  finesse, 
Each  syllable  a  song  or  a  caress, 
From  that  fair  land  we  have  with  us  to-night, 
Mile.  Dorziat  for  our  delight. 


MR.    FRANCIS    WILSON 

As  Cadeaux,  in  "Erminie" 

Come  listen  to  the  "Dickey  Bird," 
The  gayest  song  you  ever  heard, 
Sung  by  a  tramp  as  fresh  and  gay 
As  ever  wandered  by  the  way — 
Incorrigible,  fickle,  fond, 
The  first  "Beloved  Vagabond." 


236 


MISS    JANE    COWL 

As  Mary  Turner,  in  "  Within  the  Law " 

Protest  supreme  against  the  Law's  lost  soul, 
Your  fine  presentment  would  lay  bare  the  whole 
Of  tangled  lack  of  justice,  till  in  awe, 
We  shudder  at  Life's  wreck,  "Within  the  Law." 


MISS    ANNIE    RUSSELL 

As  Kate  Hardcastle,  in  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer" 

"She  stoops  to  conquer," 
But  a  star  in  falling, 
Brings  a  new  gleam  on  earth, 
A  heaven  recalling. 


237 


MR.    HENRY    MILLER 

As  Sidney  Carton,  in  "  The  Only  Way" 

When  Sidney  Carton  in  the  twice-told  tale 
Would  have  us  weeping,  or  perchance  turn  pale, 
The  price  of  such  sweet  pain  we  gladly  pay 
Is  it  not  Henry  Miller's  "Only  Way"? 


MR.    WILLIAM    GILLETTE 

As  "Sherlock  Holmes" 

Subtle,  sincere,  illumining,  illusive, 

Convincing,  captivating,  and  delusive, 

You  who  can  thrill  until  we  hold  our  breath, 

And  hang  suspended  as  'twixt  life  and  death — 

Who  are  you  then,  but  one  of  two? — and  yet 

You  must  be  Sherlock  Holmes — 

You  are  Gillette! 


238 


MR.    WILLIAM    FAVERSHAM 

As  logo,  in  "Othello" 

lago, — sinister,  unhappy  role, 

The  Bard  with  swift  unswerving  instrument 

Portrays  the  pit  for  every  human  soul 

That  is  not  with  a  purer  purpose  blent. 

Degraded  man ! 

Supreme  indeed  the  art 

Of  one  who  may  interpret  such  a  part. 


MME.    NAZIMOVA 

Aa  "Hedda  Gabler" 

Nazimova,  none  but  your  potent  gift, 
Could  Ibsen's  Hedda  to  perfection  lift, 
Half  woman,  and  half  serpent,  wholly  vile, 
Yet  Hedda  in  your  person  doth  beguile. 


239 


MESSRS.    WEBER    AND    FIELDS 

Two  names  that  seem  to  all  of  us  but  one, 

What  memories  arise  of  happy  fun ! 

Two  names  we  hold  together  in  the  heart; 

Twice  "Welcome  Home"  when  they  are  not  apart, 

For  neither  to  the  other  glory  yields, 

Immortal  Weber! 

And  immortal  Fields! 


MISS    ROSE    COGHLAN 

As  Lady  Gay  Spanker,  in  "London  Assurance" 

Did  ye  ken  our  Rose  as  the  Lady  Gay, 
Have  ye  heard  her  tell  how  she  rode  away, 
To  the  crack  of  the  whip  at  the  break  of  day, 
With  the  horse  and  the  hounds  in  the  morning? 
Oh !  the  sound  of  the  horn  on  the  echoing  hill, 
And  the  cry  of  the  pack  as  they  ran  at  will, 
And  our  dear  Lady  Gay, — I  can  hear  her  still, 
As  she  told  of  the  hunt  in  the  morning. 


240 


MISS    MARIE    DORO 

As  "Oliver  Twist" 

You,  Marie  Doro,  do  for  us  restore 
Poor  little  Oliver  who  "wanted  more." 
Plaintive,  pathetic  youth  foregone  and  missed, 
Oh !  sad  anomaly,  a  child  unkissed ! 


MR.    HENRY    DIXEY 

As  "Adonis" 

When  Dixey  in  Adonis  plays, 

All  hearts  would  sing  their  lightest  lays, 

For  who  could  frown  or  who  would  sigh, 

Or  feel  the  world  had  gone  awry — 

When,  luring  us  to  happy  ways, 

Our  Dixey  in  Adonis  plays ! 


MISS    MARY    SHAW 

As  Mrs.  Airing,  in  Ibsen's  "Ghosts" 

Heredity,  the  spectre  of  the  past, 

Ghost  of  the  present, 

Claims  its  own  at  last; 

Ghosts  of  the  future, 

Lo !  the  child  unborn 

Yields  its  fair  birthright 

To  a  fate  forlorn. 


242 


MISS    BLANCHE    BATES 

As  "Madame  Butterfly" 

Creator,  of  a  smile,  a  sigh — 
You  gave  us  Madame  Butterfly. 

MISS    ELLEN    TERRY 
At  Portia,  in  "Merchant  of  Venice" 

And  now  the  climax  of  it  all, 
We  yield  to  a  familiar  thrall. 
Here's  Portia,  here  fair  Rosalind, 
Gay  Beatrice,  and  Kate  unkind; 
Olivia  whose  tender  folly 
Immortalized  a  sprig  of  holly — 
Ah !  be  they  sad  or  sweet,  or  merry, 
All,  all  are  you,  dear  Ellen  Terry! 

FINIS 


243 


TO    JOSEPH    H.     CHOATE 

FEBRUARY  18,  1913 
A     LENTEN    TOAST    TO     "ALL    SAINTS" 

TAST  Friday  night  St.  Valentine 

•"*  Was  pledged  in  many  a  bowl  of  wine, 

Our  Patron  Saint  is  now  before  us, 

So  join  with  me  in  grateful  chorus, 

St.  Joseph,  reverenced,  &nd  dear, 

We  pledge  you  life,  and  love,  and  cheer! 

We  cannot  but  rejoice  that  you 

The  habits  of  Jerome  eschew; 

It  is  not  needful  in  the  least 

To  wander  always  with  a  beast, 

Especially  if,  like  St.  Joe, 

One  is  the  "sure  enough"  whole  show! 

No  lion  can  compete  with  him, 

For  Lion  is  his  synonym ! 


244 


Unlike  Sebastian,  you  are  free 

From  darts  that  pierce  excessively — 

And,  here  again,  the  reason  why 

Is  evident  to  any  eye, — 

Your  darts  are  always  flung  before 

Another's  sting  your  wit  can  floor, 

And  so,  unscathed,  you  bare  your  breast 

Secure  that  e'en  the  sharpest  jest 

Though  aimed  with  skill,  could  never  carry 

Against  your  "rapid  fire"  parry. — 

Another  Saint  forever  sits 
Upon  an  iron  base  that  fits 
Above  a  slowly  burning  fire, 
A  horrid  scheme,  both  dread  and  dire. — 
St.  Lawrence, — Joseph  goes  one  better, 
No  fire  could  his  spirit  fetter, 
For  he,  himself,  so  full  of  fire, 
Would  conquer  any  funeral  pyre, 
And,  Phoenix-like,  would  put  to  shame 
The  fate  that  tried  to  quench  his  flame. 
In  fact,  his  friends  have  always  boasted, 
He  is  the  roaster,  not  the  roasted! 


245 


Now  last — not  least — we  come  to  hery 

Where  Worshipped  turns  to  Worshipper, 

For  while  we  kneel  at  Joseph's  shrine, 

He  kneels  before  St.  Caroline, 

And,  thus,  in  him  we  honor  too 

His  loyal  lady,  liege  and  true, 

And  so,  once  more,  lift  high  the  bowl, 

To  pledge  twin  Saints,  with  heart  and  soul! 


246 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  TOAST  TO  OUR  G.  O.  M., 
JOSEPH  H.  CHOATE 

JANUAKT  5.  1917 

LL  high  the  glass — a  New  Year's  Toast! 

To  one  who  is  our  city's  boast — 
Of  all  her  jewels,  quite  the  Gem — 
Here's  to  our  charming  G.  O.  M. ! 
The  G.  O.  M.  that  England  knew 
Was  grand  and  wise  and  manly  too, 
And  strong  and  powerful,  but  he 
Could  never,  never,  never  be 
What  our  dear  G.  O.  M.  to  us 
Has  come  to  mean,  for  good  or  "wuss" 
(That  rhyme  is  quite  ridiculous!) — 
With  rapier  wit  and  tender  heart, 
On  every  side  he  bears  his  part, — 
With  literature  and  politics 
He  doth  a  social  glamour  mix, 
Past  master  of  diplomacy 
An  adept  in  Philanthropy — 
Who  would  not  drink  a  New  Year's  brew, 

247 


Dear  G.  0.  M.,  to  such  as  you ! — 

But  when  /  dwell  upon  your  gift, 

Your  gift  of  gifts,  it  seems  to  lift 

My  thought  from  social  charm  and  wit, 

From  epigram  with  laughter  lit, 

Or  legal  eminence,  or  deep 

Desire  to  have  your  country  reap 

From  high  ideals  and  strong  endeavor 

A  place  within  the  sun  forever.— 

Nay,  when  I  think  of  you,  I  feel 

The  dearest  gift  that  you  reveal 

Is  that  you  never  cease  to  lend 

Your  finest  self  to  be  a  friend — 

And  we  who  press  an  eager  claim 

To  call  you  by  that  priceless  name, 

Would  have  you  fully  realize 

Your  friendship  is  the  gift  we  prize. 

Thus,  as  we  drink  our  New  Year's  toast,— 

The  wish,  perchance  we  wish  the  most, 

Is  this, — until  our  journey's  end, 

That  we  may  claim  you  as  our  friend. — 

Your  friendship  is  our  diadem — 

Here's — New  Year's  joy,  dear  G.  O.  M. : — 


248 


CLANKED  by  such  comrades,  I  am  loath  to  lift 

*•     A  trembling  voice,  as  one  who  is  the  rift 

Within  the  lute;  for  how  can  I  aspire 

To  rival  all  the  past  and  future  fire 

Of  incense  burned  before  this  gifted  pair, — 

Sothern  and  Marlowe — two  beyond  compare! 

August  is  Thomas,  waiting  by  my  side, 
To  prove  that  words  and  wit  are  fast  allied — 
And  if  he  can't  suffice  in  his  short  span 
To  stir  the  house  to  homage — Otto  Kahn  I 
And  Agnes  Repplier,  she  of  rapier  blade, 
Has  cast  all  other  speakers  in  the  shade — 
Except  that  one  whose  method  no  one  shames, 
So  nobly  conscious  is  he  of  his  Ames ! 

Now  mark  'em  all,  yes,  Edwin  Markham  too, — 
To  think  that  I  should  follow  one  like  you, 
Poet  and  prophet,  master  of  the  flow 

249 


That  makes  a  hero  wield  for  sword,  a  hoe! 
So,  listen,  Friends,  with  kind  and  lenient  ear 
To  these  few  lines  that  I  would  have  you  hear, — 
Lines  only  worth  your  favor  since  they  dwell 
On  two  we  honor, — two  we  love  as  well ! 

First  to  the  man, — though  ladies  should  be  first, — 
Who  but  remembers  how  he  slaked  our  thirst 
For  high  Romance, — when  tried,  and  true,  and  ten 
der, 

He  made  us  all  believe  there  was  a  Zenda, — 
Or,  who  forgets  him,  gay  and  debonair, 
Inimitable,  laughing  Letterblair — ! 
And  Chumley — echoes  from  a  brilliant  sire 
The  memory  of  hours  that  could  not  tire. 
Magnetic  magic,  joined  to  all  that's  human — 
Of  course  he  knew  "the  way  to  win  a  woman" ! 
And  so  he  won  her, — she  who  had  already 
Inflamed  our  brains  and  made  our  hearts  unsteady — 
Who,  by  the  wonder  of  her  low,  deep  voice 
Could  make  an  audience  tremble  or  rejoice, 
Whose  Barbara  Frietchie  thrilled  us  overmuch, 
(Methinks  she'd  sensed  e'en  then  the  Sothern  touch), 


250 


She  who  with  dainty  grace  and  poignant  power, 
Had    made   us    live    "When    Knighthood    was   in 

Flower" ! 

He  won  her — and,  as  one,  they  climbed  the  height 
Of   Shakespeare's    "Jocund    Morn"    or    "dreadful 

night" 

And  we,  who  enter  now  a  holy  place, 
Would  bend  with  reverend  knee,  though  lifted  face, 
Before  the  fair  presentments  they  have  made. — 

Here  is  our  tribute, — May  it  then  be  laid 

With  loving  ardor  at  the  Altar-Throne 

Of  two  who  made  great  Shakespeare  all  their  own. — 

This  "wise  young  Judge,"  this  madcap  Rosalind, 

Gay  shrew  untamed,  and  yet  not  half  unkind, — 

Fair  Juliet,  so  bewitchingr  her  caress 

Had  left  sweet  Romeo  in  a  sorry  stress — 

Or  Viola,  part  boy,  yet  wholly  woman,   • 

Capricious,  tender,  petulant  and  human ! 

And  now,  in  turn,  behold,  as  in  a  glass 

The  fawning  Shylock,  or  Malvolio  pass, 

Or,  suddenly,  with  quick  vibrating  pain 

We  sense  the  torture  of  the  noble  Dane, 


251 


Or,  yield  ourselves,  philosophers  as  well, 

To  "melancholy  Jacques'"  potent  spell — 

We  crown  them  with  their  vast  achievement — Rise 

And  honor  those  who  read  the  mysteries 

Of  Avon's  Bard,  and  read  them  all  aright. 

Who  would  not  then  be  Julia's  Satellite, 

Or  Sothern's  slave?     Once  more  the  laurel  bring 

To  her,  the  Queen  of  Queens  "If  he  were  King!" 


252 


HENDERSON    HOUSE 

ON    PUTTING    NEW    WINE    INTO    OLD 
BOTTLES,    OR    THE    TYRANNY 
OF    THINGS 

T  LONG  to  linger  on  the  porch,  I  long  to  lie  and 
dream — 

To  watch  a  flash  of  singing  blue,  athwart  the 
sunlight's  gleam — 

To  close  my  eyes  and  lift  my  face  to  meet  the  sum 
mer  breeze 

That  plays  amid  the  maple-grove  a  thousand  har 
monies. 

But  just  as  I  would  yield  my  soul  to  nature's  potent 

spell, — 
They  come,  and  call  me  from  my  dream — to  smell 

a  horrid  smell ! 
A  drain  gone  wrong, — what  shall  be  done — ?     No 

plumber  for  nine  miles — 
The  telephone  won't  work  at  all,  this  modern  life 

defiles 


The  crimson  of  the  sunset  sky,  the  shadow  of  the 

cloud — 
I  seek  the  porch  once  more,  but  they  are  calling 

fierce  and  loud — 
"The  fire  in  the  northwest  room  won't  burn,  'twill 

only  smoke — 
Come  quickly,  Mrs.  Robinson,  the  lady  there  will 

choke!" 

What  can  be  done?  The  horrid  caps  will  ruin  all 
the  towers, 

But  ladies  must  not  choke,  and  so  we  pray  the 
Heavenly  powers 

That  we  the  mason  can  persuade  to  build  the  chim 
neys  higher, 

And  in  the  meantime  leave  the  guest  to  shiver  with 
out  fire — ! 

Again  I  seek  a  sheltered  spot  and  hope  for  sweet 
repose 

To  bathe  my  senses  in  the  hush  that  comes  at  day 
light's  close — 

But  no ! — They  rush  to  find  me  there,  the  windmill 
won't  go  round, 

The  wind  has  died,  the  engine's  stopped, — in  sullen 
gloom  profound 

254 


I  listen  to  the  dreadful  tale — "one  of  the  bathrooms 

leaks — 
Four   thousand   gallons   lost   last   night — "   I   feel 

resentful  shrieks 
Are  creeping  up  my  throat  and  soon  will  reach  my 

trembling  lips — 
I  want  to  go  to  far-off  isles,  too  far  for  any  ships, — 

Where  there  is  nothing  but  the  beach  and  just  one 

scrub  oak-tree, 
And  plumbing  never  was,  nor  is,  and  never  more 

shall  be, — 
I  want  to  have  no  modern  joys,  no  "comforts,"  no, 

not  one — 
But  just  to  sink  upon  the  sand  and  swoon  into  the 

sun! 

When  "Great-Aunt  Harriet"  ruled  the  Roost,  and 
ruled  it  very  well — 

She  never  had  to  smell  a  drain — there  were  no  drains 
to  smell ! 

She  never  heard  the  windmill  stop  with  sinking  of 
the  heart — 

Or  lost  four  thousand  gallons  of  the  pumping's  bet 
ter  part. 

255 


She  caught  the  rain  in  little  tubs  and  washed  her 

guests  in  sections ! 
We  have  the  tubs,  they  must  have  caused  most 

graceful  genuflections — 
And  by  a  small  coal-stove  each  one  was  warmed 

and  cheered  aright — 
A  candle's  blaze  is  better  far  than  Gasoline's  no 

light- 
Aii  !  me,  Ah !  me,  when  nature's  call  would  bid  my 

soul  take  flight, 
When  fleecy  mist  of  amethyst  is  mingled  with  the 

night 
And  some  pale  crescent  moon  adown  her  silvery 

glamour  flings, 
Must  I  still  bow,  a  slave,  before  the  Tyranny  of 

Things—? 

Nay,  for  in  spite  of  drains  and  flues  and  windmills 
gone  astray 

And  lights  that  flicker  and  burn  low  in  weird  and 
woful  way— 

In  spite  of  watery  waste  galore,  from  plumbing  all 
awry 

There  is  no  place  like  Henderson  beneath  the  mid 
night  sky ! 

256 


TO    A    BISHOP 

WHO    SAID    HE    KNEW    NO    FLOWERS 

BUT    THE    IRIS    AND    THE 

BRIDAL-WREATH 


brilliant  Bishop  says  he  never  knows 
Aught  but  the  Iris  and  the  Bridal-  Wreath, 
And  yet  his  words  do  blossom  like  the  breath 
Of  a  most  fragrant  and  redundant  rose, 
Whose  scent  shall  linger  with  us,  —  for  it  blows 
Its  scattered  petals  while  it  perisheth, 
Lavishing  sweeter  perfume  in  its  death, 
As  a  fair  day  is  fairest  at  its  close  —  ! 
May  we  not  broaden,  though,  his  floral  scope 
With  Monk's-Hood  and  with  pious  Mitrewort 
Whose  fragile  beauty  foams  in  distant  dells, 
While  Jacks-in-Pulpits,  on  the  forest  slope, 
In  surreptitious  fashion,  coyly  flirt, 
With  careless  clouds  of  Canterbury  -Belles  ! 


257 


THE   POETRY   SOCIETY   ANTHOLOGY 

VERSES  WRITTEN  FOR  AN  ANNUAL  DINNER  OF  THE  POETRY  SOCIETY 
OF  AMERICA — WITH  APOLOGIES  TO  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS,  AUTHOR 
OF  "SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY" 


EDWARD    J.    WHEELER 
PRESIDENT   OF   THE  POETRY   SOCIETY   OF  AMERICA 

T   WAS  President — not  of  the  United  States, — 

*   No,  of  something  much  more  unique, 

Much   more   subtle — I   was   the  President   of   the 

Poetry  Society ! 

Long  ago,  one  of  America's  greatest  statesmen 
Said  he  would  rather  be  right  than  President — 
I  would  much  rather  be  President  than  Wright! 
Anyway,  Wright  could  never  have  been  President — 
He  did  not  have  the  power  of  public  opinion — or 

was  it  Current  Opinion — behind  him — 
And  then,  too,  they  elected  me  President  because 

of    my   judicial    manner    and    my    reserve   of 

speech — 

Wright's  speech  is  torrential, — 
He  is  about  as  reserved  and  as  silent  as  Niagara — 
He  could  never  have  controlled  himself  as  I  did, 
When  the  authors  of  unpublished  poems  were  being 

slaughtered — 

My  calm  was  never  ruffled — My  smile  never  altered, 

261 


No  one  of  those  authors  ever  knew  how  I  felt  about 

their  poems — 

And  now  they  never  will  know, 
For  I  am  dead — 
And  though  I  would  not  rather  be  Wright  than 

President — 

Sometimes  I  think  I  might 
Rather  be  dead  than  President  of  the  Poetry  Society ! 


MERLE    ST.    CROIX    WRIGHT 

T  WAS  always  Wright,  and  even  though 
*  I  am  dead,  I  am,  still  Wright — 
It  was  a  habit  of  mine  to  be  Wright,— 
Pre-eminently  right — 

And  even  after  death  one  does  not  get  over  a  life 
long  habit — 

I  never  gave  anybody  time 
To  prove  me  in  the  wrong — 
Suave,  sonorous,  adequate, 
My  words  drowned  patient  protests 
And  swept  them  away 
As  the  scum  is  swept  from  a  river — 
I  was  the  Knower — 
Do  not  mistake  me — 
Not  Noah,  spelt  with  an  "N," 
Although  my  words  were  like  a  flood, 
But  Knower,  spelt  with  a  capital  K — 
One  who  has  knowledge 

Of  all  things  and  who  expresses  it  in  all  ways 
At  all  times — 

263 


Wheeler,  who  lies  near  me  in  this  vault — 
Had  no  such  bottomless  well  t>f  water  springing- 
And  yet,  the  Poetry  Society  made  him  President- 
Why? 


264 


JESSIE    B.    RITTENHOUSE 
SECRETARY 

I   OUGHT  not  to  have  died  and  come  here — 
*   I  was  young  and  strong  until  they  made  me 

Secretary — 

Secretary  of  the  Poetry  Society. — 
It  was  not  the  work  that  killed  me — 
No,  it  was  trying  to  be  fair — 
Fair  about  those  unpublished  poems. 
When  Miles  Dawson  and  Arthur  Guiterman  and 

Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson  and  Dr.  Smith 
Would  get  up  and  talk  about  "convincing"  and 

"not  convincing" 
And  say  the  poems  "left  them  cold"  and  "really 

were  not  poems  at  all," 
I  could  see  spasms  of  rage 
Chase  over  the  faces  of  the  authors, 
Poor  authors,  unwitting  attendants 
At  their  own  "marche  funebre. " 
And  then,  within  me,  would  overflow 
The  soft  and  soothing  milk  of  human  kindness 

265 


And  all  my  veins  would  fill  with  a  gentle  anaemia 

Of  desire  to  be  fair  to  all  present, 

And  I,  too,  would  rise,  and  say 

That  "I  had  not  thought  much  of  the  poem  they 

were  discussing — 

Till  I  came  to  the  last  line,  and  then  I  did  think 
There  was  punch  in  the  last  line,  real  punch" — 
Well,  later,  I  became  more  anaemic  and  died  and 

came  here. 
I  have  never  been  quite  sure  if  I  died  of  anaemia  or 

punch — 
I  mean  the  punch  we  all  used  to  drink  at  the  Poetry 

Society — 
But  that  was  not  real  punch! 


266 


MILES    MENANDER    DAWSON 

TREASURER 

T  OFTEN  wonder  what  the  Poetry  Society  does, 

*•  now  that  I  am  dead — 

Perhaps  there  is  no  Poetry  Society— 

Or,  if  there  is  one,  it  can  only  be  a  little  one  that 
survives — 

How  its  members  must  muse  on  my  name,  and  all 
that  it  meant  to  them ! 

It  is  a  beautiful  name,  and  very  suggestive — 

Miles!     Miles! — and  Menander! 

Those  words  seem  to  inspire  a  vision  of  leafy  laby 
rinths 

And  one  who  walked  in  them  slowly  with  other 
sages — 

Confucius — Socrates  and  many  more, — talking  and 
answering  each  other — 

And  then  the  end  of  my  name,  Dawson, 

Perhaps  it  was  the  end  of  my  name  that  made  me 

Yukonic,  like  a  river,  ceaselessly  flowing. 

A  chill,  like  the  end  of  my  name — 

Reminiscent  of  cold  countries — 

267 


Would  creep  over  the  Poetry  Society 
When  I  addressed  them, 

A  curious  numb  look  would  spread  over  their  faces, 
As  if  they  were  snowed  under — 
Perhaps  it  was  my  name  that  did  it — 
The  snow  is  heavy  in  the  Klondike — 
Dawson  City  is  there, — but  Miles  M.  Dawson,  him 
self,  lies  under  other  snowflakes. 


268 


PADRAIC    COLUM 

INE  are  the  ashes  of  a  valiant  heart, 

It  was  I 

Who  once  disarmed  the  Mighty  Imagiste,  Amy, 
She,  who,  with  fluent  tongue,  did  hypnotize 
The  wordiest  members  of  the  Poetry  Society, 
And  rendered  them  mute,  impotent  and  dumb — 
She  wiped  the  floor  up  with  them — 
One  by  one — 

And  then  I  rose,  and  with  beguiling  brogue, 
And  that  sweet  voice  that  sings  with  Celtic  charm, 
I  laid  her  low — 
I  could  never  have  done  it  if  my  name  had  been 

Patrick— 
But — it  was  Padraic! 


269 


CHARLES    HANSON    TOWNE 

T   DO  not  like  being  dead  at  all, 

*   I  was  so  fond  of  Manhattan — 

Nobody  ever  knew  of  which  I  was  most  fond — Man 
hattan  or  a  Manhattan — 

Not  even  the  Poetry  Society  knew, 

Though  they  thought  themselves  so  subtle! — 

Another  thing  they  never  knew  was 

Whether  I  cared  most  for  the  Town  or  just  for 
Towne — 

It  would  have  been  easier  to  find  that  out,  for  some 
times 

I  nearly  gave  it  away — for  it  was  so  plain  to  me 
that 

Towne — Charles  Hanson  Towne — was  the  Town, 

And  the  Town  of  Manhattan  is  the  Earth — 

But  the  Poetry  Society  never  were  quite  sure 

What  I  did  think— 

I  always  kept  them  guessing--- 

It  is  easy  to  keep  poets  guessing ! 


270 


ARTHUR    GUITERMAN 

f  USED  to  wonder  sometimes  if  they  thought  me 

as  clever  as  I  really  was, 
When  I  criticised  all  the  others 
In  those  far-away  nights  when  we  met  at  the  Na 
tional  Arts  Club. 
I  think  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson  knew  I  was 

clever 
Because    I    never    liked    any   of    her    unpublished 

poems — 
I  tried  to  be  lucid  about  it,  but  sometimes  when  I 

was  speaking, 
I  saw  by  the  smile  on  the  faces  of  some  of  the  other 

writers 
That  they  thought  I  had  come  to  a  line  of  theirs 

that  I  really  admired. 
Lucidity  is  a  lost  art, 
And  Poets   are   very   provincial,   unless   they   can 

combine  humor  and  pathos  as  I  can — 
It  is  hard  to  be  funny  after  one  is  dead,  however. 
It  is  lonely  being  funny  after  one  is  dead — 


271 


I  think  I  would  rather  be  at  the  Poetry  Society 

than  dead, — 
At  least  there,  the  joke  is  on  the  other  fellow! — 

FINIS 


272 


AN  AMERICAN'S  APOLOGY 

TO  A   SLANDERED   GENTLEWOMAN    FOR 
INTRODUCING   A    CERTAIN    GEN 
TLEMAN    AS   HER   GRANDSON 

(To  Austen  Leigh,  a  grandnephew  of  Jane  Austen) 

f  REALLY  feel  a  poignant  pain, 

To  think  I  slandered  your  Aunt  Jane, 
Whose  morals  high  and  reputation, 
Have  been  the  "Pride"  of  all  your  Nation — 
I'm  sure  she  had  a  "Prejudice" 
Against  a  bearded  Suitor's  kiss, 
And  shrank  with  "Sensibility" 
From  every  sort  and  kind  of  he, — 
And  yet,  my  brutal  speech  inferred 
A  man's  advances  had  been  heard, 
By  your  refined,  austere  Aunt  Jane, 
Whose  heroines  would  hardly  deign 
To  see  your  Sex  without  the  "Vapours" — 
(They  never  read  the  Sunday  papers), 
They  were  so  sensitive  and  tender, 
So  modestly  aware  of  gender. 
273 


When  I  reflect  on  what  they  were, 

I  feel  the  more  how  due  to  her 

Is  this  apology  sincere, 

By  one  who  holds  her  memory  dear, 

Who  never  would  accuse  of  levity, 

A  spinster  (not  known  by  her  brevity), 

But  still  the  soul  of  wit  and  grace, 

Whose  name  is  loved  in  every  place! 

Accept,  then,  Mr.  Austen  Leigh, 

My  most  contrite  apology, 

And  should  we  ever  meet  again, 

I  will  not  slander  your  Aunt  Jane. 


(Answer  of  the  grandnephew) 

DEAR  MRS.  R: — 
YOUR  witty  letter, 

Has  made  me  more  than  e'er  your  debtor, 
For  what  'mere  man'  his  heart  could  harden 
When  a  fair  lady  asks  his  pardon? 
In  fact  I  bless  the  insinuation, 
That  brings  such  charming  reparation. 
It  surely  was  an  easy  slip, 
To  miss  the  exact  relationship, 
274 


But  as  you  recollected  quickly,  Madam, 
Jane  was  an  Eve  who  never  met  her  Adam. 
She  used  to  say  that  should  she  wed, 
She  fancied  Crabbe,  from  all  she  read. 
But  he  already  had  one  spouse 
(That's  all  the  British  law  allows) 
Which  placed  the  authoress  of  "Emma" 
In  quite  a  terrible  dilemma. 
However,  she  subdued  her  passion, 
Not  being  of  George  Eliot's  fashion, 
And  thus  Aunt  Jane,  a  spinster,  ended 
Her  days  in  isolation  splendid. 

So,  too,  as  rhymin'  is  exhaustin', 
E'en  for  great-nephews  of  Jane  Austen, 
I'll  end,  asking  your  tender  mercies, 
For  my  poor,  wretched,  halting  verses. 
Could  I  have  been  to  school  at  Groten, 
They  had  not  been  so  awfully  rotten! 


275 


A    PLEA    FOR    THE    "ULTIMATE 
CONSUMER"    IN    LITERATURE 

AX7HEN  Miss  Burney's  "Evelina" 

*  *     In  her  "delicate  distress" 
Leaned  upon  her  stalwart  lover 
Till  her  "fragile  loveliness" 
Filled  him  with  immoderate  ardor — 
This  despite  his  calm  endeavor — 
And  he  murmured  "Lovely  Burden, 
Why,  ah!  why  not  thus  forever?" 
Then  the  "Ultimate  Consumer" 
Knew  the  climax  was  at  hand, 
And  it  did  not  take  unusual 
Subtlety  to  understand ! 

In  the  "Children  of  the  Abbey,"— 
Have  you  ever  read  that  book? — 
There  the  heroine  had  "vapors" 
If  she  ever  undertook 
Anything  at  all  emotional, 
But  the  hero  would  forgive 
276 


While  he  kissed  her  tear  and  called  it 

"Just  a  pearly  fugitive"- 

And  the  "Ultimate  Consumer" 

Almost  felt  himself  unmanned 

By  the  purity  and  pathos 

Which  he,  too,  could  understand ! 

In  our  day  of  modern  Isms 
'Tis  a  very  different  thing, 
For  the  "Ultimate  Consumer" 
Finds  a  circus — a  three-ring — 
If  he  wishes  to  be  cultured, 
And  he  strives  so  very  hard, 
He  must  try  a  dip  in  Ethics, 
He  must  battle  with  a  bard 
Quite  unlike  the  soothing  singer 
Which  the  Eighties  did  demand 
And  the  "Ultimate  Consumer" 
Really  cannot  understand. 

He  must  take  a  dab  at  Science 
Some  time  in  his  busy  day — 
He  must  feed  on  bits  of  faience 
In  a  most  artistic  way, — 

277 


All  the  question  of  the  sexes, 
Intricate  though  it  may  be, 
He  must  solve,  although  it  vexes 
Much  his  innate  modesty; 
Books  on  china,  be  it  crockery 
Or  the  ancient  Manchu-land,— 
How  to  make  a  garden  rockery 
He  must  fully  understand ! 

He  must  bow  to  polyphonic, 

Unpoetic,  parlous  prose 

(And  for  this  he  needs  a  tonic 

Stronger  than  his  nature  knows) — 

He  must  struggle  till  he  catches 

Faintly  at  the  hazy  gist 

Of  the  cults, — in  sudden  snatches, 

Futurist  or  Feminist,— 

He  must  tackle  every  "newness," 

And,  believe  me,  it  takes  sand, 

Till  he  sometimes  feels  discouraged, 

For  he  does  not  understand ! 


278 


He  must  soar  with  Henri  Bergson, 
He  must  sneer  with  Bernard  Shaw, 
He  must  ask  the  Swedish  Ellen 
For  the  key  to  Free-Love  lore, 
He  must  thrill  to  the  dramatic 
"Damaged"  quality  of  "Goods" 
Which  were  better  in  an  attic 
Kept  with  other  poisoned  foods; 
He  must  let  his  lower  feelings 
To  a  flame  be  fiercely  fanned 
Just  to  keep  himself  "eugenic," 
But  how  can  he  understand? 

Ah !  dear  Authors,  let  me  ask  you, 
I,  the  "Ultimate  Consumer," 
I,  whose  rapid  dissolution 
Borders  on  a  "Russian  Duma," 


Santa  Ana 
Public  Library 

279 


Could  you  not, — I  only  ask  you, — 
Be  at  times  more  clarifying, 
Like  a  Shakespeare,  or  a  Sappho, 
Winged  word  with  thought  undying — ? 
Socrates  and  all  the  Sages, 
Prophets  from  a  far-off  land, 
Thunder  down  the  deathless  ages 
Thoughts  we  still  can  understand! 


Santa  Ana 

Public  Library 


280 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


PRINTED  IN  U.S    A. 


3  1970  00699  4914 


UC  SOUTHERN  RE 


